Find Your Way Home
by Space-Case-Writer13
Summary: Following the events of Captain America: Winter Soldier, this fic traces the journey of James "Bucky" Barnes, as he heals from seventy years of brainwashing, torture, and destruction. What does the process of finding yourself after such hardship, pain, and trauma look like? What does it mean to find your way back to yourself and find your way home?
1. Bad Beginnings

Author's Note: Marvel owns what it owns, and I own what I own, let's keep it that way shall we? Don't Sue me!

TW: Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, PTSD, Depression, Disordered Eating, Loss, Self-Harm-Implied/Referenced, Suicide-Implied/Referenced, Character Death-Implied/Referenced

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Chapter One: Bad Beginnings

They were on his scent. _Hydra._ They wanted him back. They wanted their weapon back, their Winter Soldier. He sucked in the cool air, glancing around him, eyes scanning the tree line for movement. _I have to keep moving, I have to stay off the grid. They__'__re waiting for me to show up in one of the cities. They__'__re waiting for me to make a mistake. _

He traipsed along the roadside, his legs ached, head throbbed, and his whole body covered in goosebumps, even as sweat dripped from his brow. He had to pause as the ground in front of him, warped and spun. He knelt down, squeezing his eyes shut, he pulled his right glove off and dug his hand into the soft earth and tried to regulate his breathing. _Assess damage. Evaluate options. _His heart pounded his ears, nearly obscuring the sounds around him. He'd headed north, he'd headed away from densely populated areas. Now he was in the middle of New York nowhere, and the sounds of the forest crept in around him.

The sun was getting ready to set, and he could already feel the evening mists setting in. He grit his teeth as another wave of pain accompanied by nausea washed over him. _Find cover, repair damage, resupply, regroup, keep moving. _That's what his training dictated he needed to do. That's what would keep him alive right now. He rose shakily to his feet, blinking the spots from his vision. The sun was going down fast. Turning away from the road, he surveyed the horizon. An abandoned barn peaked out over the tree line, about two miles from the road. It would provide cover and a place to evaluate his physical condition. His head continued to spin, and he squeezed his eyes shut. He could hear them, their voices, their screams. He could see their faces. His breath caught in his chest, making him wheeze.

Opening his eyes, he took one final look around before he turned to the brush and trees, and started walking. Ignoring the sheering pain shooting from his shoulders arm and into his back, he trudged through the woods. The sun sunk below the horizon, and the dark and damp settled in, seeping through his light jacket and into his bones. The mist rolled in, clinging to his hair and skin. Soon the mist turned to rain as his breath condensed in the air in front of him. He blinked heavily to keep his vision from blurring. _Bucky?_ That voice hit him so hard, he stopped and looked around. _Your name is James Buchanan Barnes._ He heard it again. That face, _his_ face swam in front of his eyes. "You're not here." He said out loud, willing the voice away, ignoring how his own voice shook. It wasn't the worst thing he could be hearing, he knew that. But he couldn't afford to lose his grip on reality, not right now, not when he was exposed and at the mercy of both Hydra and the elements.

He sucked in the damp air, coughing as it stung his lungs. His foot caught on a root, and he fell to the ground. Clawing at the damp, peaty earth, thick with decaying leaves, and mud, he staggered to his feet, every movement a labor. He continued through the woods, breathing heavy, head pounding, eyes blurring in and out of focus. Coming to a white fence, he clambered over it and went to the barn. Glancing around, his gaze momentarily paused on the old decaying farmhouse before he slipped inside. He stopped. There were horses in the barn. It wasn't abandoned. Pain shot from his left shoulder, through his body, and into his spine. The whole barn spun, and he had to lean against the wall to keep from toppling over. _Just a few hours of sleep, and he__'__d be out of here before the owner showed up._ He staggered through the barn, the horses eyeing him nervously. Coming to an empty stall at the far end, he collapsed on the straw-covered floor, the barn ceiling spinning in an out of focus. He could hear them, he could hear of all them. The screaming and pleading of the soldier's victims and the sound of gunfire mixed with the memory of his own screams and the buzz and snap of electrodes. He squeezed his eyes shut, tears streaming down his face, his breathing ragged. _Make it stop, please make it stop. _He bit down on a wad of his jacket, trying to smother the urge to scream, fighting his body and the pain, waiting for the release the darkness would bring.

The darkness took him, but then all too soon, the world came swimming back into focus, and he jerked awake.

"Good morning, ladies and gentlemen." A woman's voice proclaimed cheerfully, punctuating the silence before the barn doors slid open with a loud bang.

His eyes snapped open, temporarily blinded by the bright florescent lights overhead, he blinked, struggling to his feet. His whole body was tense as he looked for an escape route, heart pounding, eyes searching frantically for a way out that wouldn't involve him killing this person. The sound of boots on hardwood floors paused outside the stall, "Hello?" The unidentified woman called. His right hand went to the knife in his pocket, to find it wasn't there. Instead, both hands were clenched. "Hello?" She called again, there were a few hesitant steps. _Run. Run, you idiot. _He would've screamed. _Run while you can still get away. _She came into view outside the open stall door, her eyes scanning him only momentarily before she took a big step back and away. "Whoa. Hi there big guy, I'm not here to hurt you." She said, raising her hands up in front of her, surveying him with dark eyes.

What surprised him was that it wasn't fear that immediately crossed her expression, but concern. "Who are you?" He demanded, voice low and hoarse from disuse. He scanned her, evaluating for possible threats. She was: short, muscular, rigid posture with a calculating expression. _Possible Soldier._ He decided. However, perhaps most importantly, she appeared to be unarmed. _Threat level: moderate to minimal; ally: unknown; final evaluation: not a target, take no further action. _His training told him, his head pounded.

"I have to ask for your safety and mine are you armed or currently on drugs of any kind?" The woman asked carefully.

_Like it would matter? You don't know who you're dealing with, woman. _However, she wasn't scared, she was asking a matter of factly, taking stock of him and his threat level the same way he had done with her. "No." He shook his head before a sheering pain nearly sent him to his knees. Barely stifling a scream, he staggered forward, catching himself on the side of the stall before he could tumble all the way to the floor. He blinked, as the barn floor twisted and warped.

The woman took a halting step toward him but stopped at the sound of gravel crunching under tires outside. He looked up at the woman, gauging her response. She glanced between the door and him. "Stay here," She said in gently but firm voice before walking from the barn. "Suzanne!" The woman greeted the driver in a cheerful chirp.

"Ramirez!" Suzanne replied before the rest of their conversation was obscured by distance.

There was another stab of pain, and he collapsed in the hay. He lay there a moment breathing ragged, chest heaving, eyes clenched shut as he waited for the pain to pass. He curled up, a small as possible, and gripped his skull with his right hand covering most of his face and head with his hand and arm. The left hand and arm lay limp. He tried to focus, tried to focus on anything that might take his mind off the pain. He focused on the voices outside the barn. The two women were talking, about a horse Suzanne had rescued, and that the woman, whom Suzanne had called Ramirez, was apparently rehabilitating. Their tone was relaxed. Had the woman alerted Suzanne to his presence? It didn't appear so. At the moment, they didn't pose a threat to turned to his surroundings trying to evaluate where he was and what he could do if he needed to make a quick exit. _Location:__ Barn__;__ Occupants__:__9 Horses;__ Exits__: Two doors and two loft windows, one door was shut possibly locked, the other led to the pasture outside. Location: defensible; personnel: civilians. No immediate threat. Stand down. _

He focused then on his breathing. The pain wasn't flaring anymore and had receded momentarily to a more manageable level. His head was still spinning, but he didn't feel like he was going to vomit. However, there was a persistent and nagging itching sensation at the seam between the metal plate and his skin. He wanted to scratch, he wanted to scratch and scratch until the thing was out. His brain was telling him to run. _They're going to find me, they always find me. I have to keep moving, I have to go further north. I can't let them get me again, I can't let them make me kill people anymore. I can't let them make me forget. _He'd managed to shake his tail after he'd made it into New York City, but who knew how far behind him they were. In New York City there had been too many people, it was too crowded, too noisy. Too much static when his mind was already fuzzy. He couldn't risk accidentally hurting someone, or at the rate, he was going, risk becoming incapacitated in the street for a stranger to find. _No, so instead, you stumble into a stranger's barn and pass out there. _There was no helping that now. His location was secure for the moment, and the woman, Ramirez, hadn't seemed in a hurry to let anyone know that he was there. _Is she Hydra? _The thought persisted. If she was, she certainly didn't fit the model of Aryan perfection that they usually employed. She looked like a Latino type, maybe Mexican or Mexican-American. He couldn't be entirely sure, but she wasn't white.

The truck drove away, and he started to sit up, his muscles screaming, his head throbbing with every movement, so he collapsed back into the straw. He squeezed his eyes shut and trained his ears, listening for footsteps. She was calling the cops, there was no other explanation. He tried to sit up. _I have to keep moving, I can't stay here. _His stomach rolled, how long had it been since he'd eaten? A day? Maybe two? It didn't matter. Whatever he ate, he'd just throw it back up again. He managed a sitting position, his head screaming, pain shooting up his neck and shoulders, and into his spine. He was struggling into a standing position when he heard the footsteps again. The footfalls faltered a moment, and the woman appeared at the stall door.

"Hey." She began slowly. "I've brought you some water. When was the last time you had something to eat?"

He kept his eyes directed on the barn floor, trying to will it to stop spinning. "I don't know." He muttered, shaking his head slightly. The words came out at no more than a rasp.

The woman, Ramirez, nodded, "I know I already asked you this, but are you sure you're not on anything?"

He squeezed his eyes shut, doing his best to think through the ringing in his ears and the pounding in his head. Hydra had pumped him full of stuff, he just didn't know what, and he wasn't in any position to speculate at the moment. "I...I don't...know," He managed.

"Okay." The woman answered. "I'm going to grab some broth for you. Try and drink some water if you can." She said, slowly entered the stall and set the water bottle down only a few feet from him.. "I wouldn't try moving too much." She cautiously backed from the stall.

He watched her disappear from his line of sight and then listened as her footfalls faded from earshot. He glanced down at the bottle of water she'd placed beside him. It was plastic, disposable, with the original seal intact. He staggered the few steps toward it and sunk down on his knees beside the water bottle. He grabbed it and inspected it carefully before opening the bottle and raising it to his chapped lips.

His mouth and throat were dry even as his stomach rolled, making the back of his throat string. He took a few small sips, just barely wetting the inside of his mouth. He paused as the lukewarm fluid settled in his stomach before he took a few more sips, expending nearly every ounce of self-control not to chug the water down. He knew what would happen if he did.

_The longer you stay here, the closer Hydra gets to your location. _His whole body throbbed. He could barely stand, never mind continue his trajectory northward in his present condition. He took another few sips of water, trying to ignore how his hand was shaking. He couldn't move very fast or very far, he'd have to shelter in place. He paused at the sound of approaching footsteps. The woman would complicate things, but at the moment, what choice did he have?

"Hey." She announced her presence, and he looked up at her. She was holding a green metal thermos. "It's the broth from green chili stew, it's really hot at the moment, I would give it some time to cool down." She set the thermos down at the stall doorway. "I'm going to be in and out of the barn today, but it's only me, so no one will bother you in here." She explained.

He nodded but said nothing. The woman nodded in reply, again giving him a once over, her expression gave nothing away. "Stall door open or closed?" She asked.

"Open."

"Sounds good." She nodded again. "Let me know if and or when you want some more broth or when your stomach can handle solids."

She walked away without waiting for a response and turned on the radio. Music in Spanish seeped from the speakers not quite loud enough to drown out her footsteps or voice but enough to fill the otherwise silence of the barn. He crawled forward, peering out into the aisle found the woman leading the horses outside two by two. Grabbing the thermos, he returned to the back corner where the water and his backpack was located. She walked in and out a few times before she started cleaning the stalls. He watched the doorway, propped up in the furthest corner, sipping water and listening to the gurgle of his stomach. Could he trust her? Well. He didn't exactly have a choice at the moment now, did he? He couldn't help but wonder about her motivations and reasoning behind this apparent altruism. _'It's only me,'_ She'd said, or had she meant just me? He didn't know.

He unscrewed the lid of the thermos and sniffed it cautiously before taking a small sip, a complicated array of flavors assaulted his tastebuds, it was more than just the water, stock, and salt he'd expected. _Green Chili Stew_ is what the woman had said. He took another sip, not surprised this time by the array of flavors he focused on what his body was doing. He was still nauseous, and everything was still spinning, but his stomach wasn't constricting or twisting, or any of the other telltale signs that he was going to throw up. He took another drink of water and then another sip of broth gauging how his stomach was handling the intake of fluid. He finished the water and broth at about the same time. While his stomach was rolling, he didn't feel like he was going to throw it up. Instead, much to his surprise, he didn't feel hungry, he felt full for probably the first time in a long time. He shuffled over to the stall door and placed both the water bottle and thermos just outside the door, before crawling back to his corner. Back to the wall, he settled down in the straw facing the doorway. He blinked as his eyelids grew heavy, his whole body on high alert even as he fought against the oncoming sleep. He had to remain vigilant even in his sleep. He also didn't know what sleep would bring. Nightmares and horrors, voices, and visions of the atrocities he'd taken part in and been victim to.

Was all of this just another one of Hydra's tricks? Would he wake up back inside one of their compounds strapped to a chair? Was all of this just in his head? No, everything hurt too much, even for Hydra. If they were implanting something in his brain to pacify him, they were doing a piss poor job.

He drifted in and out of consciousness, clinging to the sounds of the barn and the gentle hum of the music playing in the background. He moved only a few times to retrieve water and broth the woman had supplied before crawling back to his spot. Time passed. It must have he just wasn't entirely sure how much. He could identify the woman's footsteps coming and out of the barn. Other voices were far off in the distance, and he couldn't quite make them out, though they never approached the barn. The woman's voice cut in and out of the general static. Laughing or chatting loudly, nothing urgent, just idle chatter mostly. He eventually found himself lying on his back, staring up at the barn ceiling. It wasn't spinning quite so much, and the pounding in his skull had eased.

Every muscle in his body still ached, but not as bad as before, though he knew if he moved too much too suddenly, the left shoulder would flare up again. He pulled off his right glove with his teeth and brought his right hand to his shoulder. He could feel the seam of metal and flesh and feel the grinding of metal on metal from the arm in his spine. He squeezed his eyes shut, he could hear them screaming again, all of them at once. He took several deep breaths trying to stymie the pounding behind his eyes.

His eyes shot open at the sound of crunching gravel coming up the drive near the barn. "Hey, Jack." The woman's voice rang out at the truck door opened and then slammed shut. Her voice was audibly tense.

He frowned, pushing himself up into a sitting position, training his ears on the conversation just outside.

"Mrs. Underdalh." A man's voice answered.

"You know I never took my husband's name Roberts, do you have my month's supply of hay?" The woman replied flatly.

"Calm down there, Ramirez," Roberts laughed. "I got your hay."

Something about that man's voice put him on edge. It obviously put the woman on edge too. He slowly pulled himself into a standing position, listening to the muffled exchanges and shifting noises. Then their voices shifted back out to where the man had gotten out of his vehicle, and he could actually make out what was being said.

"You know I would take this place off your hands. You don't need all this responsibility and worry little lady, especially when you're still so young." The man she'd identified as Roberts commented the condescension thick in his tone.

He limped from the stall. His right hand grabbing the stalls to steady himself.

"I've told you before, Roberts. I'm not selling." So this was a conversation they'd had before. No wonder the woman, Ramirez, was irritated.

"You would if you knew what's good for you." Again the condescension was thick in Robert's voice.

"I don't have time to talk about my business, you know the way out." He heard her boots crunch in the gravel as she turned on her heels, but she was stopped.

"I don't give a shit what you have the time for." Roberts snarled.

"Let go of me, Jack." It wasn't fear in her voice, it was fury.

He moved faster, his feet driven by an unknown force, even as he internally screamed. _Keep a low profile, don't draw any attention to yourself. _

"Or what?"

"Or I'll break your fucking hand before I break your face." The woman practically growled.

"Oh, you think you're funny," He spat, "Fucking wetback I'll—" The man identified as Jack Roberts stopped when he saw him step into the barn doorway.

"Is there a problem here?" It was the only thing he could think of to say, his voice low and gruff from disuse. He surveyed the scene in front of him. The man Ramirez had called Jack Roberts had a hold of her arm, his knuckles white from how tight he was gripping her elbow. He was a short, stout white man in his fifties, wearing cowboy boots and a cowboy hat. He was, however, unarmed._ Threat level: minimal._ He decided, even if the man was an asshole.

Roberts, doing an evaluation of his own, immediately released the woman's arm as a wave of fear passed over his expression. "No. No problem." He backed away, not brave enough to turn his back on him, Roberts all but ran to his truck. Both he and Ramirez watched as Roberts clambered inside, fumbled with the keys, and turned over the engine before he hauled ass down the gravel road.

They watched Jack Roberts disappear down the drive before the woman turned to him, facing him squarely. Her chest heaved, her hands slowly releasing from fists as she surveyed him with her dark eyes. Was she trying to decide if he was a threat? Had she recognized him? Whatever her evaluation, she reached her conclusion, she nodded only once before walking around the side of the barn and out if his line of sight.

He turned, cringing as he did, the pain making dark spots dance before his eyes. He walked, practically staggering back to the stall, closed the door, and collapsed in the straw. Curling up in the furthest back corner, facing the door, he listened, wondering if she was going to come back. From the sound of music playing in the distance, he figured not.

The stall door blurred in and out of focus, as he struggled to keep his vision from spinning. He squeezed his eyes shut, exhaling a shaky breath. He shouldn't have done that. He shouldn't have intervened. _It wasn't any of my business._ He reasoned to himself. It had also compromised his location and possibly alerted Hydra to where he was hiding out. It wasn't safe. _I should keep moving. _It was one thing to have the woman know he was here. She was harmless and completely alone, he'd have at least a day's head start if he needed to- _NO!_ He stopped himself from even thinking it. _No. Absolutely not. I won't. Not a civilian._

He shivered, chills raising goosebumps on his sweat beaded skin. He fought to think through the shooting pain at his temples. _Why stop Roberts? Why interfere? He wouldn't have actually hurt her, would he? _He didn't know. What he did know was that his actions had defied Hydra programming, self-preservation, and logic. This wasn't about logic, though, there was something entirely irrational about the whole situation. He could see the look of anger in her eyes, her jaw set in determination, prepared to take whatever was headed her way. The expression was familiar, and he couldn't shake the feeling that he'd seen that expression somewhere before.

_ Steven Rogers. _He couldn't help but think of the blonde man from the hellicarrier standing resolutely before him, unarmed, and unwilling to defend himself. Even still, that wasn't the same expression that had been on the woman's face. No. That was an expression Bucky Barnes had seen a thousand times over on the face of his 95-pound asthmatic friend, _Steve._ On the Hellicarrier, Steve Rogers had called him Bucky, James Buchanan Barnes. God, how he wanted it to be true. He wanted it to be true with every fiber of his being, wanted to have a name, an identity, a past beyond the torture and pain and violence of the last seventy years.

The memories of the blood and the pain and the torture and the mutilation and the murder told a different story. It said, _'No. You are not worthy of him. You not even worthy of being human. End it all. End it all now, and you'll spare the world and spare Him so much pain._' He wanted to hold on to the hope that maybe he was Bucky Barnes, that maybe he was worthy of the human race. Was that why he'd intervened? He knew on an intellectual level; it was the right thing to do. He knew right and wrong, but the will and ability to act upon it was another thing. Just because it was the right thing to do hadn't made him act upon it. There were a thousand reasons _not _to. Maybe he'd done it for her, although he had no idea why he'd do something so stupid.

Another chill ran up his spine and made his whole body shake. The question would have to wait for another day. He couldn't parse through it right now. Right now, he needed to focus on regaining his strength and shaking whatever the hell it was Hydra had pumped into him.

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A/N: I hope you enjoyed! Comments are always welcome!


	2. Canned Speeches and Recollections

Author's Note: Marvel owns what it owns, and I own what I own, let's keep it that way shall we? Don't Sue me!

TW: Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, PTSD, Depression, Disordered Eating, Loss, Self-Harm-Implied/Referenced, Suicide-Implied/Referenced, Character Death-Implied/Referenced

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Chapter Two: Canned Speeches and Recollections

He awoke to nature's call, which was an unexpected surprise considering he'd been mostly sweating and vomiting. Standing up, he staggered from the barn, looking for the best place to relieve himself. He was so distracted he nearly stumbled into Ramirez, who wore an unmistakable expression of surprise. "You're up!"

"Bathroom?" He somehow managed despite the spinning, pounding, and the overly full bladder.

"There's the outbuilding." She pointed past him to a decent sized building. "There's a bathroom and shower, toiletries, and spare clothes if you'd like." She explained quickly.

"Thanks." He mumbled, moving past her and up the hill toward the building. Hesitating in the doorway, he flipped on the lights and did a quick survey to make sure the building was abandoned. Entering the building, he locked the door behind him before going to one of the bathroom stalls.

Once his bladder was sufficiently emptied, he went to the sink to wash his hands...hand. He glanced around, double-checking that the door was locked before pulling off the left glove. Fumbling with the knob of the water faucet, he put both hands under the tap, allowing the water to flow over them. Washing his hands, he glanced up into the bathroom mirror, and although he wanted to look away, he found himself practically mesmerized by what he saw there.

The soldier hadn't been allowed mirrors. He'd certainly caught his reflection in windows and the various reflective materials in his everyday existence. Still, it had always been in bits and pieces blurred and warped and distorted, never in its entirety and never in such clarity. The face he saw there wasn't his face. It was grave and shallow and sunken. The eyes were hollow and dull.

_Your name is James Buchanan Barnes_

He'd been to the museum, seen the man that Steven Rogers claimed he was. That man was vibrant and full of life. Even in death, Bucky Barnes was more alive than he was than the soldier ever could be.

He looked down, both hands gripping the edge of the metal sink.

_Bucky!...End of the line pal...Taking all the stupid with you...I'm following him...yanno it's kinda growin' on me..._

Images flashed in front of his eyes, memories, his memories? They weren't any more than flashes, bits, and pieces, almost incoherent noise in the maelstrom raging in his head. He turned off the water and combed both hands through his hair. He was achy, everything hurt, but for the first time in the past week and a half, it was almost bearable. He stood up straight and glanced around. The woman, Ramirez, had mentioned a shower, and now that he wasn't frantically searching for a bathroom, he could look around and take in his surroundings a bit.

It was a sturdy structure, well insulated, and set on a concrete slab. It had two rows of flickering fluorescent lights, a set of six rusty lockers set along the right side of the wall. Each locker was labeled: foodstuffs, towels, toiletries, socks and underwear, blankets, and gloves. Then there were a number of clear plastic bins on the floor beside the lockers, each likewise labeled: Pants, T-Shirts, and Hoodies. _She's done this before._ He thought.

Beyond the lockers were a series of hooks. To the right was a set of three sinks and mirrors, each with their light above them, none of which appeared to work. There was a slightly off-center was a wooden bench bolted to the concrete floor. Beyond the bench and sinks was a set of three stalls and a curved shower curtain rod in the back corner. On the wall near the back was a small window with a faux stain glass sticker on the glass.

Grabbing what he needed from the lockers, and double-checking that the door and window were secure, he peeled off his clothes and walked into the shower. Pulling the curtain around him, he turned on the water. It came out cold, and he flinched as the water stung his skin, but he scrubbed his body with the bar of soap only vaguely aware as the water temperature changed from frigid to nearly scalding. It took a moment before he realized that it hurt, and adjusted the knob accordingly.

It all felt simultaneously foreign and familiar, this simple act of bathing. He tilted his head up and allowed the water to flow over him. Through his hair and down his shoulders and back, allowing the warmth to soak into his twisted and knotted muscles and maybe ease the pressure in his spine. He hurt. Every movement hurt, but his head didn't feel quite so fuzzy. He didn't have to fight moment by moment through a fog for each thought.

The water had started to run cold by the time he finally decided to get out of the shower. Drying and dressing, he pulled on his gloves and started into the yard where he got a good look at his surroundings for the first time.

There was the barn. To the right of the barn was a tool shed a woodshed and an old smokehouse, there was a massive windmill standing amongst rusted derelict farm equipment beside the gravel road that led from the barn to the main road. To the left was a small round enclosure, and then even further than that was the white fence that made up the pasture with ill-fitting gates, chipping paint, and rotted rails. Walking some distance from the outbuilding, he turned around. Past the outbuilding about another fifty yards was a set of narrow stone steps, which led up to a large colonial-style house in the same disrepair like the rest of the property. The place had basically gone to rot. Why was it that this woman wanted to hold onto it? She was all alone, or so she had said. Roberts, Roberts, had called her Mrs. Underdahl. Her husband's name? She hadn't said ex-husband, so one could assume that he either was dead or he was just not in the picture.

"Hey!" He turned to see the woman approaching him from the house.

"Hi." He nodded.

"How are you feeling?"

"Awake." It was the only honest answer he could give.

"Not sure if your stomach is ready for anything too heavy, but I brought you something to eat," She extended the green Thermos and a gallon-sized plastic bag to him.

He nodded, taking them from her without a word.

Ramirez surveyed him a moment, her expression firm but not unkind. "Is there anyone who you'd want to call to let them know you're alright? Spouse? Family? Friends?" She asked.

Barnes had one sister alive in New York, and of course, Steve Rogers would love to know where he was at, so would Hydra and a hundred other interested parties who would like nothing more than to bring him into their fold. "No," he answered shortly.

She nodded. "Well, whatever the case. You can stay in the barn as long as you need."

"Why?"

Ramirez raised an eyebrow, but otherwise made no indication that his tone had shocked or otherwise offended her. "Because you just saved my ass from Jack-ass Roberts and because it doesn't look like you have anywhere else to go that isn't jail or a ditch on the side of the road." She shrugged. "I have people who are going to be in and out today. No one should bother you in the barn. Let me know if you need anything." She then walked off without another word.

His gaze followed her out to the secondary paddock, where a single grey speckled horse was being held. She climbed on top of the fence and sat there, observing the creature as it paced the length of the paddock. The woman was talking to the horse, but he couldn't exactly make out what was being said.

Shaking his head, he retreated inside to barn this time, closing the stall door behind him. Sinking onto the floor, he opened the Ziploc bag, and the scent of warm flour rose to greet him. Unfolding the paper towels, he removed a warm flour tortilla. He sniffed it uncertainly before taking a bite. Chewing and swallowing he turned to the thermos and opening it he found bits of onion and corn bobbing in the broth. Disturbing the fluid gently, he could feel the larger particulate that had settled at the bottom of the container, chunks of pork and potatoes and corn.

He frowned, taking another bite of tortilla and a large sip of the broth. This woman wasn't frightened of him, or at the very least, didn't appear to be so. _She should be, She should call the cops, or call someone. _Instead, she was feeding him and clothing him and giving him a place to stay. Again the question was, why? Why on earth would anyone in their right mind want to protect him? He finished the broth and settled back down into the stall, his eyes focused on the stall door even as they started to pull closed.

"Ghost." Magdalen Ramirez addressed the grey speckled stallion flatly from her perch atop the paddock fence. "Can I ask you a question?" She sighed. Reaching instinctively for the silver chain around her neck, strung with two gold bands, she rolled the chain between her finger and thumb. "What the fuck am I doing?" Unsurprisingly the horse didn't answer. "Yup." The woman nodded, climbing down into the paddock she pulled on her work gloves. "I don't know either."

She walked in large circles around the paddock, watching the horse eye her warily. He was doing better since Suzanne had brought him to Last Chance Ranch back in March and had let her work with the starved, abused, tortured creature. Glancing back at the barn, she stopped and shook her head."Damn it, Ramirez." She muttered, continuing her walk through the paddock. "You have a goddamn soft spot for starved, abused, and tortured creatures, don't you?" And the man currently occupying stall ten was probably one of the tougher cases she'd ever had stumble into her barn tripping balls and half emaciated.

His eyes. Ramirez couldn't get that look in his eyes out of her head. First, when she'd come upon him in the barn and then again when he'd appeared in the barn doorway when Roberts had grabbed her. There was something savage and almost animalistic in those eyes. Like a wounded beast trapped in a corner, prepared to kill anything that threatened him, anything or anyone.

"I should call the cops. I should fucking call the cops." She muttered. _Because that's not escalating the situation AT ALL. _If she called the cops someone was going to get hurt, and she was pretty certain it wasn't going to be death on two legs in there.

How did this shit always seem to happen to her? This wasn't the first vagrant she'd had in her barn, and likely not the last, but he was the first to give her the bone-chilling once over. The guy had a presence; there was no denying that. It was now up to her to make the next move.

_You told the guy he could stay as long as he needed to you damn moron. _She silently scolded herself. _If he's like the rest of them, he'll be out of here as soon as he's able._ She reasoned. _And if he's not? _The ever-responsible "adult" voice in the back of her head nagged _I dunno? I'll improvise. _It was a bullshit copout from the nagging twinge in the pit of her stomach. She couldn't just kick him out. He'd just admitted that he didn't have anyone to call. _There are services for that Mags. _And of the system is just sooooo good at helping cases like him, isn't it? That's why she was here, wasn't it? That's why she was doing what she was doing. That's why her facility was called Last Chance Ranch. This was where people came when they'd run out of options; only this guy hadn't filled out an application and made an appointment.

_So what's the plan then genius? _Plan? Well, there wasn't really a plan now was there? Planning hadn't exactly been in the cards for her in at least two years. The plan, the best she could reason, was to get him on his feet and on his way. He wasn't her client or her responsibility beyond that. _He needs help, professional help. _That wasn't her place. If he reached out for help if he asked her for help, then sure she could get him the help he needed, but there was no way in hell she was going to call in the cops. He wasn't posing any threat to himself or others, and until such time she would just plod on and provide shelter and food for the poor bastard.

It was yet again another one of her copouts, but it was the best she could do in the present circumstance. She stopped pulling some hay from the large round bale and extended it to the horse, who was now watching her carefully rather than fearfully. Ghost approached just close enough to take the hay from her hand. She smiled, "Atta boy." Over a month and a half of working daily with this poor creature had led to this moment. It took everything she had not to laugh and cry simultaneously.

When the horse had eaten the whole clump of hay from her hand and then realized there was no more, he trotted away back over to the trough where his oats would be this evening to investigate if any had manifested. She laughed, lowering her hand and arm. "Little victories, huh, Ghost?"

She turned at the sound of a vehicle coming up the gravel driveway. Checking the time, she shook her head. "Always on time." Climbing out of the paddock, she approached the silver sedan now stopped on the drive, waiting as its passengers stepped from the vehicle.

It was James Baker, his wife Steff, and their little girl Molly. "I'll be just a minute, Ramirez," James called over his shoulder, before returning to the hushed conversation with Steff.

"Not a problem, Lieutenant." She replied, taking a few respectful steps away to allow them to converse.

"Miss Maggie! Miss Maggie!" Molly's voice caught her attention, and she knelt to receive the girl's embrace as the six-year-old rushed to her, a well-loved paper in hand.

"Molly, sweetheart. You can't just run off like that!" Steff started to approach. "I'm sorry, Maggie. Molly, you know better than that."

"She's alright," Maggie smiled, returning her attention to the little girl who was doing her best to shove the paper into her hands. "What's this?" She asked, glancing between the paper and the drawing.

"For you," Molly said.

The drawing was a family portrait with three stick figures expertly drawn with Mommy, Daddy, and Me, all clearly labeled. There was also a blue house with a green tree out front. Beside the tree was a brownish creature with long legs and an unwieldy tale that was labeled Ms. McSmush. Beside the horse was another stick figure carefully drawn with brown rather than black crayon with a mass of long hair rather than the afros she'd drawn for herself and her parents, labeled my friend Ms. Maggie. Maggie smiled. "For me? It's beautiful. Thank you."

"My mommy put my hair up just like yours!" Molly announced proudly.

Maggie looked down and found that yes, the child indeed had her hair in a similar style, done up in a halo twist. Although because the girl's hair was far shorter than hers, there were a few more pins holding the braids in place. It was frankly adorable. "You look beautiful! I love them!" Maggie smiled. "How has school been?"

Molly shrugged, making a noncommittal sound as her parents approached. Maggie looked at the little girl and smiled. "I gotta get to work, alright? Thank you very much for your drawing, it's going to get put up on my fridge." She folded the drawing up and put it in her back pocket.

"Come on, Molly. We need to let Ms. Maggie and your dad get to work, we'll see them in a little while." Stephanie called.

"Bye, Ms. Maggie!" Molly gave her a quick hug before running up to her dad to do the same.

"Lieutenant, ma'am," She nodded, standing up.

This earned a good-humored eye roll from the adults and a widening grin from Maggie. "You two have fun," She smiled.

"We'll see you in a little while." Steff took Molly by the hand and walked back toward the car.

She and James waited until the car had disappeared back down the drive before either of them spoke. James sighed heavily. It was one of those sighs that meant they were in for a difficult session. They hadn't had one for a while, but James was due one. "Come on, James," Maggie pat him on the back, "Ms. McShmush is waiting for you."

James nodded, following behind her. They didn't bother with the small talk. Instead, Maggie hummed as they walked up to the small sandy arena where the small sandy brown mare Ms. McSmush was lumbering around the perimeter. They entered the arena, and Maggie turned to her client. "Alright. Let's start with a couple of deep breaths, James."

He nodded, running his hand over the short hair growth curled on his scalp, took large exaggerated breaths, just to let her know that he was at least attempting. "Whenever you're ready, bring Ms. McShmush over here to the fence, she needs a good brushing."

Still, he said nothing. After a moment, James sighed, marching over to Ms. McSmush. The horse moved away from him as he approached, eyeing him warily. He stopped shaking his head, muttering under his breath.

"It's okay. She's just a little uncertain. That's alright. Think about how you're approaching her and what type of energy you are bringing into your exchange." Maggie coaxed, watching his body language. His whole body was tense, his shoulders, however, were hunched, and he flexed his hand and fingers tightly into a fist. He wasn't on the verge of a panic attack, but was frustrated and angry, and exhausted. He hadn't had this much trouble approaching McSmush in a while.

James muttered something under his breath, turning he marched from the arena and toward the barn. Right exactly where she didn't want anyone.

"Oh shit," Maggie swore under her breath, charging after him. This was the last thing in the world she needed to happen.

He lay on the floor of the barn listening to the sounds outside the barn. A family had arrived, then the car had gone, and now it was only the woman and the man, she'd called him James. He paused at the sound of approaching footsteps. They were approaching the barn. Scrabbling up, he pressed his back against the door of the stall door, listening as Ramirez and the man identified as James entered the barn. They both stopped in the middle, neither party speaking or saying anything.

_What the hell is this? _He strained to listen for any indication of what was happening only feet away. His palm itched, he needed to move, he needed to get out before he was discovered. He paused as the woman, Ramirez, spoke. "I'm going to sit. If that's okay, been on my feet all day, I could take a load off." He heard her sit on the wood floor of the barn. She paused. "You can join me if you like."

"I'm fine." The man, James, answered tersely.

"You're good," She replied. There was something reassuring in her voice, the easiness with which she spoke... yet the tension coming off the other person told a different story. "What's going on? Let's talk through it."

_Let's talk through it? _He couldn't believe his own ears. This man didn't want to talk. Everything about him was coiled and ready to strike. He didn't even have to see the man to know that was the case.

There was the sound of someone much larger than Ramirez, pacing the length of the barn before they stopped near where Ramirez had sat down. "Molly."

_His daughter?_ It was such a tiny thing, a man saying his daughter's name, but there was terror in his voice. _Why? _He couldn't help but wonder.

"Your daughter."

"Yeah," James answered after a moment, an audible lump in his throat. "I—I uhhh—I Just, it just." He stammered into silence.

"It's okay. Take your time. Slow, deep breaths." She instructed gently, this incredible tenderness in her voice.

"Molly." The name came out as nearly a phantom as the man repeated his daughter's name. "She's getting big, Ramirez."

The woman made a general noise of encouragement

"It's scary. When they're first born, they're helpless and tiny, and you can't really imagine how this could possibly be a human, and now...now she's talking and walking, and she's so damn smart and curious about the world." He paused, exhaling a shaking breath. "How do I know I'm not going to mess up? With all this shit that can go wrong in a normal circumstance, how am I supposed to be a parent...the way that I am? I don't want her to turn out like me. It's so, so hard to come back after all that and try to be the person that I was. But I have to. I have to do it for Molly and Stephanie. Christ, that woman's been through hell because of me. How can I possibly do anything right after what I've done?" He sniffled.

Ramirez gave him a moment before she spoke again. "It's hard to adjust to civilian life after being out there, hard to take off the armor you forged to keep yourself alive out there. It takes practice, and it takes time, but the fact that you're here putting in the time and effort to realize you're wearing the armor in the first place means that you don't want to have to carry around this weight for the rest of your life," She said.

"God. That's so fucking frightening." He hissed through his teeth.

"It is." She agreed. "But you start with the small stuff, with the choices you make, the words that you use, how you treat yourself and your fellow humans," She paused. "No one wakes up a villain or a hero, a good parent, or a bad parent, a good person, or a bad person. It's the choices we make that define us, each and every day. So start small. When the world is violent, try to be gentle. When you're frustrated, try to be patient. When you could lie, try to be honest. When you're angry, try to be understanding. Every choice, every action matters. Our past doesn't define us, but our choices now and today help shape our tomorrow."

There was a long pause. James snorted, "That's a nice canned speech, Ramirez, but not all of us can be you, yanno?"

"I wouldn't want you to be. I can honestly say I fail more often than I succeed at following my own advice." She chuckled. "But the take away should be choice, a'right? Nothing is set in stone. That's why you're here, remember?"

James sniffled slightly.

"And just because I _may _have practiced that speech in a mirror for just this moment, it doesn't make it any less true." She added.

There was a long pause, and he wasn't sure what was going to happen next. The air was thick and heavy. "Come on. Let's get back to it." James said after a moment.

"Alright. That's good. You go on ahead. I'll be right behind you." Ramirez instructed as she stood up.

The larger pair of footsteps left the barn and headed back toward the arena and paddock. Ramirez's footsteps instead approached his stall. She stopped, looking down through the stall window at him, he met her gaze, it was only for half a second, maybe even less before he looked down and away again. Wordlessly she walked from the barn, leaving him alone again in the silence.

He waited until her footsteps had disappeared completely before he felt that he could breathe again. He exhaled sharply, looking down he found that he was shaking. Why? Why was he reacting this way? After all that he'd endured, all that he'd seen and done, why was he now reacting like this? It had been a close call, that much was true. It was also that he knew he'd invaded on an intimate and deeply personal moment. Ramirez's quick glance had told him as much. It wasn't so much a threat of violence as a warning, perhaps almost a reminder. _These people are under MY protection._

He shook his head, wincing. The left shoulder was flaring up again. He pulled off his right glove with his teeth, biting down into the thick leather. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to wait out the pain, _Make it stop, please make it stop. _

He wracked his brain, searing for something, anything to take his mind from the pain.

Her eyes. They were the first thing that came to mind. Her expression when she'd looked down at him. The ferocity of it all. It wasn't anger or hatred in her eyes, it was a warning, like a lioness protecting her pride. _I have allowed you into my pride, but I will not tolerate anyone who might hurt them. _

He had seen her stand up to Roberts, but he had been a fraction of his size. Did she really think she'd be able to inflict real harm? No, that wasn't the message in her expression. It was a warning, not a threat.

What the hell is this place anyway? A training facility of some kind? A therapy facility? What did the horses have to do with it?

Another wave of pain watched over him, and he clamped down harder on the glove.

Hydra, Hydra had done this to him. They'd turned him into this. They'd turned him into this, and this was the cost. 'I'll kill them. I'll kill them all for that they did to me, for what they made him do.'

No. He couldn't let them find him, couldn't let them turn him back into their weapon. What he wanted was inconsequential. He couldn't allow them to turn him into a weapon again. He wouldn't kill or hurt or maim for them ever again. He couldn't let that happen. He faded in and out, aware of the sounds of vehicles and people coming and going, but as the woman said, no one bothered him, leaving him with his thoughts and the ever-looming threat of nightmares.

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A/N: I hope you enjoyed! Comments are always welcome!


	3. Baffled Expectations

The author would like to note that this is just fanfic and is not in any way financially profiting from this particular fic.

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Chapter Three: Baffled Expectations

He was awake before Ramirez arrived in the barn the next morning. Waiting, bracing for what was to come. Wondering what retribution he would receive for yesterday's blunder. Planning his next move. If he could manage to move at all.

"Good Morning Ladies and Gentlemen" The woman announced cheerfully, shoving the doors open. He could hear her footsteps fall heavy as she walked over to the radio wedged precariously on a shelf and flipped it on. It crackled to life before the station came in, and Tejano music filled the barn as she collected the feed buckets. "Good morning Shadow." She greeted the massive Clydesdale first. "Mrs. Honey-oats, Mr. McSmush, Countess Peachy Pie..." Down the line, she went dumping a bucket of morning oats into the troughs. Each of her horses had unusual names, things sounding like storybook characters rather than belonging to the massive creatures inhabiting the barn.

Over the sound of eight massive animals chomping on their breakfast, he could hear her slowly approach the stall he was occupying. There was the rustle of a plastic bag and the clink-thud of something being slowly set on the wood floor. Then a breathless pause before she walked to the office.

He didn't budge. Would she be angry about what had happened yesterday? She hadn't seemed upset, but he had been in the middle of something very personal between her and James. What would she do as punishment? Would she cut him off as a consequence? Make him fend for himself? It only made sense. Hydra had done worse for less. Being in the wrong place at the wrong time... He did all he could not to shudder at the very thought.

He waited until she'd led all the horses from the barn before he made his way to the stall door and peered out. He frowned at the plastic grocery bag that sat outside the door. Pulling it into the stall, he retreated to the back of the stall before opening the bag and surveying the contents. There were two large bottles of water, a sleeve of crackers, and the thermos of broth. She'd also included tortillas like the day before. He paused, at the sound of her approaching footsteps. "Hey." She called out, "I'm going to placing round bales, Suzanne is going to be here in a little while. She's not going to bother you in here. There shouldn't be anyone in here today." Ramirez paused. "Sorry about yesterday. That was..." She hesitated, trying to select her words carefully, "unexpected." She decided finally.

He didn't respond. What was there to say? He was the intruder. Why was she apologizing to him? She should be angry with him. There should be consequences. Only she wasn't angry. Or even upset. She'd included more food today than she had yesterday.

"Have a good day." She said slowly after a moment and walked from the barn.

He waited until her footsteps had disappeared before he unwrapped the tortillas she'd left for him. He ate slowly, taking careful, measured bites out the tortillas. The broth and crackers he'd save for later. Had she made them fresh? Why would she make fresh tortillas for me? He pondered taking another bite. The ones yesterday had been warm. Perhaps she had made a large batch. Was she cooking just for him? Surely she had a family or someone in the house with her that she was cooking for, and he was just getting her leftovers. That had to be it. Why would she make food from scratch for him?

It's only me. That's what she'd said. But then she'd also said that she'd never taken her husband's name. Did she have a family? Or was she actually alone out here?

He shook his head, immediately regretting it as it made his vision spin. Then, just as quickly his stomach turned. Stumbling to his feet and from the barn, he made it to the outbuilding's toilets just in time to throw up the meager contents of his stomach.

Shit. He spat into the commode before flushing. His whole body shook, his stomach twisting and contracting. Rising slowly, body aching in complaint, he went to the door and locked it. Returning to the sink, he alternated between splashing cool water on his face and rinsing his mouth to get the taste of bile out. He ran his tongue over his teeth and paused. After a moment he turned to the lockers. Rummaging through them, he retrieved a toothbrush still in the package and an unopened tube of toothpaste. The mint tingled and burnt, but the sensation of clean teeth after not brushing them for a while made him feel human. Perhaps he'd even venture to say normal. Turning off the water and wiping his mouth, he glanced in the mirror, catching his gaze in the reflection only a moment before his eyes darted away again.

Barnes is the only commando to give his life in service of his country.

He'd seen the dead man's memorial. Seen the photos and video of Barnes and Steven Rogers in the Smithsonian. Even now he could see the dead man's eyes in his reflection. So the question persisted. Could he be James Buchanan Barnes? Could he be the man that Steve Rogers thought he was?

Or had James Barnes died in 1945 like the museum had said and had someone or something else taken his place? How could he possibly know? The woman's words from the day before came drifting back. Choice. Could he really choose to be James Buchanan Barnes? What did that mean? What did it mean to be James Barnes? James Barnes was a good person. He, the soldier, decidedly was not. Could he simply choose to be James Barnes? No one wakes up a good or bad person. That's what she'd said. Yes. But that didn't apply to him. That couldn't apply to him. He didn't get a choice. Not in that. Not until he knew that hydra couldn't crawl back inside his skull and make him forget.

He froze at the sound of an approaching vehicle. Suzanne. The woman had said Suzanne wouldn't bother him in the barn. Pulling on his gloves and unlocking the door he started toward back toward the barn, but stopped, watching as a battered pickup truck pulled up the drive hauling an empty horse trailer behind it. To his surprise a slender woman with frizzled gray hair climbed out and looked around, leveling her gaze on him. "You boys are out early." She said, with the voice of someone who'd smoked six packs a day since she was twelve. Looking about as weathered and beat up as her truck, she leveled him with a piercing gaze, which could have rivaled his own.

"Ma'am?" It was all he could think of to say.

"You must be new, I'm Suzanne," The woman approached him, extended her hand out to shake his. He took the woman's spidery, bony hand, and shook it. Her grasp was firm and strong, her gaze direct and earnest. This was a woman who'd worked every day of her life and wasn't about to take shit from anyone. Him included.

"Matt." He answered the unasked question, cringing internally as he did. Matt? Why Matt? It was the only name he could think of at the time, and now he was stuck with it, at least for the time being. It was a cover, and he would make it work. Besides. What was he supposed to say? James Barnes? Bucky? That wasn't his name to claim, not yet, maybe not ever.

"Good to meet you, Matt. She normally doesn't have her volunteers out this early, is she around?" Suzanne asked brusquely.

"She's out placing round bales. I can go get her if you want," He offered, wanting more than anything to get out from under this woman's sharp and scrupulous gaze.

"I don't think that's going to be necessary," Suzanne replied, motioning behind him with her chin.

"Suzanne!" Ramirez's voice reached them from some distance away. "Give me a minute; I'll be right there."

"Take your time; just talking with Matt." Suzanne returned her full attention to him. She looked him up and down. "I take it this is your first time out. She hasn't even gotten you a shirt yet. Come on, need to get you properly outfitted." She started toward the outbuilding and motioned for him to follow. He glanced between Ramirez and Suzanne before following the older woman. What choice did he really have? They came to the outbuilding, and Suzanne entered, digging through the many drawers inside.

"I think this will work." She said shoving a shirt at him. It was a grey long-sleeved shirt, with a logo on the chest. He looked up and met Suzanne's expectant gaze.

"Thanks." He said.

"No problem kiddo." She said, walking past him and toward the woman who was standing beside the secondary enclosure where a single grey horse was watching them nervously.

When he was sure that Suzanne and Ramirez were occupied in their task, he slunk back to the barn stall and sunk back down in the hay. He spread the shirt across his lap. It had a logo on the left side, a brand, the words Last Chance Ranch surrounding the brand. The best he could figure it was an L with an R on the inside of the L, and in inverted C. It still didn't give him any indication of what exactly this place was or why exactly the woman had volunteers. She was obviously running some kind of charity organization, community service type thing. But how exactly everything fit together was still a mystery. He squeezed his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose as his head continued to pound, and strained to listen to the conversation between Ramirez and Suzanne.

"Come to check on our boy?" Maggie greeted Suzanne as they both reached the gate.

"Yeah, figured it was time for a check-up on that shoulder wound." Suzanne agreed climbing into the enclosure.

Suzanne did her visual evaluation, and then wordlessly they retreated back to the fence.

"How's he looking?" Maggie asked when they were both on the other side of the fence.

"The shoulder looks like it's healing, no irritation or any major issues with mobility that I can tell," Suzanne said.

"That's good to hear." And it was. Since Suzanne had brought him in, she'd managed to get some weight on him and watched as his body had stitched itself back together after years of abuse and neglect. But that wasn't why Suzanne was here. Suzanne was notoriously overbooked, and wouldn't stop by here just to check on Ghost, not unless Maggie had asked her to. Maggie paused, chewing on the corner of her lip. "Why are you really here Suzanne?"

"Heard Junior came by yesterday."

It wasn't a question. "Yeah, unfortunately." Maggie rolled her eyes.

"You alright?"

"Yeah."

"His daddy should've belted his ass, spoiled brat." Suzanne shook her head.

"Little late for that, anyway not much we can do."

"I heard from Senior that your volunteer 'bout scared the piss out of the little man," Suzanne replied, watching Maggie's expression for a reaction. Maggie didn't say anything. "News like that travels fast."

"Well, nothing he didn't deserve."

"I'm not disagreeing. I'm glad you're okay." The older woman smiled, squeezing Maggie's shoulder. "I'm grateful. You deserve all the help you can get, and if it keeps Junior away then all the better."

Maggie returned the smile. "Well, whatever works right?"

"Damn straight." Suzanne nodded firmly. She paused. "What's your plan for when he raises your hay prices again?"

Maggie hesitated. What was she supposed to say? That she hadn't had a plan for at least two years and had been winging it? That she was at any given point ready to throw in the towel and call quits on the whole thing? She couldn't admit that to this woman. Mainly because she knew if she let on how bad it was she might start crying and never stop. "I hadn't really put much thought into it." She admitted finally. "I know he's going to. It's just a matter of when. I just." She broke off, rubbing her forehead.

"You need a plan, kid. Particularly since it sounds like Junior is getting aggressive," Suzanne warned.

"I know Suzanne. I know." She sighed, feeling a slight hitch in her chest, a lump threatening to form in her throat.

If Suzanne noticed she didn't say anything. "Well. Fortunately, Roberts doesn't have a vendetta against me, so if it comes to it, I can let you have some of my hay until you figure out a solution to your pissing match with the little bastard."

"He started it." Maggie protested.

"Doesn't matter who started it dear. All that matters is you keeping this place afloat." Suzanne glanced down at her watch. "I gotta go, let me know if you need anything, or if the old man's condition changes any." She said motioning to the horse enclosure.

"Yes, ma'am." Maggie nodded.

"I'm not a ma'am," Suzanne said.

"Yes, Suzanne." Maggie stuck out her tongue.

"Good. Better." Suzanne grinned.

"Have a good day."

"You too."

Maggie waved as Suzanne drove back down the gravel road and disappeared. Turning to the picnic bench just outside the enclosure, she removed a small note pad from her back pocket. Her stomach twinged, the telltale sign that an anxiety attack was forthcoming. Things were only going to get worse. She knew that. She'd known that the moment Jack-ass Roberts had shown up early day before yesterday. Perhaps it was just the fact that Suzanne was acknowledging her worry and concern about the situation.

'Cross that bridge when we get to it Mags.' She could practically hear him say. She sunk down on the bench, and immediately touched the chain around her neck, turning the silver cord between her finger and thumb. Yeah. But you aren't here to be a part of we. It's just me. What the hell am I supposed to do?

Maggie exhaled sharply, pulling the pencil from her hair, and made notations on her to-do list. Returning the pencil to its place, she let her head rest in both hands, taking deep long breaths. It was nine a.m. She still had the whole day ahead of her, and the to-do list was only going to get longer.

He exhaled as the truck drove away, glancing down at the t-shirt still clenched in his hand and counted to ten.

Rising to his feet, blinking away the dark spots that danced in his vision, started outside back toward the outbuilding to return the shirt. He wasn't one of her volunteers, and he seriously doubted that she would want him anywhere near the horses or anyone else for that matter. He was a threat without getting a thousand-pound animal involved. He was halfway to the outbuilding when he paused to observe Ramirez, who sat stooped at the picnic table, slowly writing on a scrap of paper. He craned his neck. It looked like a to-do list, some numbers, and figures in one of the corners. Although, if it was a to-do list, it was more than any single person could ever handle.

Volunteers, perhaps? He glanced around. Suzanne had said that they weren't normally out this early. But it was verging on 9:30 almost 10:00 am, and there wasn't anyone that he could see. Was it just her? And that ridiculous to-do list?

"So Matt." The woman said slowly looking up and turning to face him. "That's Suzanne."

What was he expecting him to say? He wasn't entirely sure, but she was watching him, as closely as he was watching her. She was gauging his reaction, trying to draw him out.

"She's my vet. She's around here with some regularity." She said explained, almost breathless as if trying to find a way to fill the silence.

He nodded. "She gave me this shirt." He said after a moment glancing down at the shirt he was still holding it in his hand.

"Oh. She must've thought you're one of my volunteers." Ramirez said brightly.

"Volunteers?" He echoed.

"The Ranch." She said motioning to the Last Chance Ranch t-shirt. Again he said nothing. "It's an equine-assisted therapy ranch." She explained quickly. "Specifically for veterans. It's a non-profit, run by yours truly, Suzanne, and a rotating group of volunteers, mostly veterans, but I do try to work with ex-cons."

So he wasn't the first likely to stumble into her barn. And she was used to working with former soldiers and criminals. That would explain the supplies in her outbuilding and her lack of surprise at discovering him in her barn. Still. It told him very little about her. Who the hell was she? And why was she so eager to help out these outcasts? To help him?

"You're the only one out here?" He asked.

The woman tensed and it was only then did he realize what a threatening question that was. He took a step back, trying to make himself appear somehow smaller. Somehow less of a threat to her and her livelihood. He was a threat. His very existence was dangerous, but he didn't want to kill her. She'd given him a cover, albeit a flimsy one that wouldn't last long, but it was a cover he could use for the time being. But through her nonverbal response, it confirmed at least one question he had about her. She was alone out here. There was no one else. Was that thy Roberts had tried to hurt her? Because he knew or at the very least had thought that she would be alone out here when he came to harass her? It was logical. It made sense. If he was going to torture or kill someone, it was always best not to have an audience. Somewhere isolated, with minimal chances of being interrupted.

He blinked, realizing where his mind had just gone. The woman was watching him uncertainly. "Seems like a lot for one person." He managed after a moment.

This, fortunately, seemed to defuse the situation. "Well. I do have help." She smiled weakly. "But yeah. It's a lot." She sighed. "Well. I should get back to it." She turned back to her work at the bench returning to the too-long to-do list and taking a sip from the coffee cup that had long ago lost all trace of warmth.

He nodded, moving slowly he set the t-shirt beside her. He had no reason to keep it. He wasn't a volunteer out here. He couldn't help her. He couldn't even help himself. What use could she have for someone like him?

She put her hand on it, and paused, looking up at him. "Keep it." She said, picking it up extended it to him. "At the very least it's something you can change into if you wanna wash what you're wearing."

He hesitated a moment. There was no expectation that he should help her; there wasn't even an ask in her remark. She had more than enough reason to ask. The state of that to-do list was enough to make anyone want to ask for help, particularly if someone was freeloading in your barn. No comment about repayment, no remark about making himself useful. It was just an extra t-shirt if he wanted to wash the clothes he was wearing. She was helping him, protecting him without expectation of repayment. She was doing this not out of a sense of obligation but because she genuinely wanted to help him.

He took it, mumbling his thanks and she nodded returning to her to-do list.

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A/N: Okay full disclosure. I absolutely love Suzanne and I think everyone needs a Suzanne in their life. Meanwhile, Ramirez is an absolute hot mess. Poor Bucky has no idea what to do with both of them.

Sorry, this one was a bit shorter, but more length to come next chapter! (I hope). R&R!


	4. Rain on A Leaky Roof

The author would like to note that this is just fanfic and is not in any way financially profiting from this particular fic. The characters belonging to Marvel belong to Marvel. However, all characters created by me belong to me. Yanno how it is.

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Chapter 4: Rain on a Leaky Roof

He sat in the barn, holding the t-shirt, trying to decide what he wanted to do. What did he want? Well, for one, he wanted the pounding behind his eyes to stop. He wanted his whole body not to ache and throb like one gigantic bruise. He wanted his stomach to settle. He wanted the noise, the whispers, the screams, the memories in his brain to fall silent. But beyond that, he didn't know what he wanted. He knew what he had to do. He had to survive. Had to keep moving. Had to avoid falling back into Hydra's grasp at all costs. Right now, he had to get well enough to be able to keep moving. Everything else, what he wanted, was secondary. Yet, here he was contemplating what that t-shirt meant, and what Ramirez giving it to him meant. He had a choice.

He paused, wincing as his spine began to prick, his whole body twinging. Pressure changes. A storm was coming. He put the shirt aside and pulled off his right glove. Running his hand through his hair and over his face, he breathed deeply, the smell of humidity and damp before the storm rolling in and filling his lungs. His chest ached with the deep inhale, but the smell of clean, fresh air made the exertion worth it.

Then the storm started, at first nothing more than a patter. Then it swelled, magnifying to a roar on the roof overhead. He closed his eyes, momentarily pondering just standing out in it, soaking in the water and the stinging sensation of the rain falling against his skin. How long had it been? How long since he'd just stood in the rain for the pleasure of it.

He paused. He could feel it, the electricity in the air, crackling sharp. He flinched as the lightning flashed, and the thunder boomed around him. He could hear the buzzing crackling of the electrodes around his skull, and he tensed, his body preparing for what would come next. His hand was shaking, palm sweaty; he could feel his heart race, pulse-pounding dully in his throat. He could feel his breathing start to hitch. The pain, his body was waiting for the pain. His mind felt ready to cleave itself in half, preparing to void itself of his memories. _Wipe him. Start over._

Jumping to his feet, He paced the length of the stall, blinking as he tried to focus, tried to ground himself. Another flash of lightning followed by a low rumble of thunder. It rattled the barn and in his chest. He stopped his pacing, glancing around at the single light that illuminated the barn. It flickered from the storm, casting an eerie shade around the stall. _You're okay. _He told himself, trying to focus on anything but the sound of cracking and booming thunder.

Then he heard it, the slow, drip drip drip on the wood floors. Then it was just like a switch had flipped in his brain. A compulsion. A need to find the source of the drip and to fix it. He stopped, looking down, scanning for evidence of a leak. He walked from the stall and glanced around, eyes focused down on the floor, ears bent, fixated on the sound of the drip. Pausing at a wet spot on the floor, he looked up, flinching as a drop of water fell on his face. He wiped his face, hand shaking substantially less. The loft floor had a steady drip of water. He was getting closer.

He exhaled sharply at the sound of another clap of thunder. _Focus. Breathe. _He put his right hand to his left shoulder, the seam of flesh and metal itching, his palm burning, his head pounding. He staggered to the loft ladder and started the climb up. The loft floor was pooled with water, and soft spots had formed from prolonged exposure to the elements. He was getting closer. His eyes scanned the barn roof, looking for any indication of where the water might be seeping in from. The roar from the rain outside was near deafening, but he froze at the sound of Ramirez running into the barn.

She was wearing a black rain jacket, but beneath it, he could see wet hair clung to her flushed face. She grabbed a bundle of lines with clasps at the end and rushed back outside. _She's bringing in the horses. _He turned squarely toward the ladder, wondering if he should climb down and help her. Wordlessly he climbed down and opened all the stalls doors and then climbed back up to resume his search for the origin of the leak. Two by two, as was her normal custom at the end of the day, she walked the horses into the barn until they were all back in their stalls.

Her breath was heavy and condensed in the air as she shut the door behind her, the rain still roaring just outside. Shaking off, she went to the large wood lit a fire before pulling off her jacket. She then went to the radio and turned the dial, searching for a different station.

Satisfied, she turned around to stall ten. "Matt?" She called. Approaching the stall, she peered in, her face contorting into a deep frown. "Matt?" She called again, this time with more of an edge to her voice.

"Here." He answered.

She turned and looked up, surveying him uncertainly, trying to piece together what he was doing.

"The roof has a leak." He said flatly, answering her unasked question of '_what the fuck?' _Which, to be fair, he would've been wondering the same thing.

"Oh." Her expression darkened, the lines around her eyes and mouth more grave. "Shit." She mouthed so softly; he wouldn't have heard it had he not been watching her carefully. "How bad is it?" She asked with a heavy dose of dread.

He glanced pointedly at the growing puddle of water near her feet. She glanced down and then up to the loft where he was. Her expression worked in silent calculation. Honestly? She needed the whole roof replaced. It looked well overdue, and from what he could tell this was just the latest in a long line of problems she'd had with the roof.

"I know it needs to be replaced altogether. I have the materials...I just...I just..." She turned, swearing under her breath.

"I can patch it."

"What did you say?" She turned back, staring, almost as surprised as he was to hear those words coming out of his mouth.

He squeezed his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose, planning out exactly what he was going to say. Mouthing it a few times, he took a deep breath. "If you have the tools and materials, I can patch it. It should hold until you get a chance to replace the roof."

"Are you sure? I mean, you don't have to do this." She protested weakly.

"You just said you have the materials." He said. "I can patch it." He paused. "As repayment," he added slowly.

"No." Her expression went stony. 'No. No, you don't hav—" She paused as her phone started ringing. "Shit. Excuse me." She turned and walked to the office.

He contemplated what he'd just seen. The absolute horror and dread that had crossed her face that had then nearly given in to panic. She knew the roof was bad. She knew it needed to be replaced.

_Christ, doesn't this woman know how to ask for help?_

_And you do?_

That wasn't the point. _So what was?_

She needed his help, and this was something he could help her with. He didn't know animals, but he knew carpentry. He knew that. He could help her, and he wanted to help.

Perhaps, selfishly, he wanted a dry place to stay, and he wanted to limit the number of people who knew where he was hiding out. But there was something fundamental about wanting to help out, something very _James Barnes_ about helping this woman.

He turned away from the edge of the loft and focused on the ceiling. "There you are." He muttered as he found the leak, the plywood under the shingles had started rotting away from the exposure to the elements. The entire thing would need to be replaced and soon.

He climbed down from the loft and went to the barn door. Scanning the ranch's landscape through the rain, spotted the tool shed. Pulling up the collar of his jacket, he charged out into the driving rain. The water stung his face, and he blinked to keep the rain out of his eyes. He slipped into the tool shed, shutting the door behind him. His eyes scanned the disorganized shelves, searching for the right materials and tools he would need to patch the roof.

He pulled off his right glove and ran his fingers over the different implements. He didn't know exactly what he was looking for, just that he would know when he saw it. There was something soothing in the motion, running his hands over the wooden handles worn smooth by use. He pulled his hand away and rubbed his fingers together. A fine layer of dust covered everything in the shed including the roofing materials. There was also an ample supply of sheetrock that had gone to rot, PVC pipes and unopened cans of paint. In addition to the dust, there was also rust building up on some of the tools.

She'd confirmed that she was out here alone. What had happened to her husband, Underdahl? What had they planned to do with all of this stuff? Why had those projects been abandoned?

At length, he selected the materials and tools he needed and headed back out into the rain.

Thunder and lightning flashed overhead, and he winced, picking up his pace as he headed back toward the barn. He entered the barn and climbed the loft ladder. The dripping from the leak had quickened.

He'd have to wait until the rain stopped before he could repair the damaged section. While he waited, he could create the two missing shingles.

He glanced around the loft wasn't an ideal working place, but it did give him a good vantage point of the rest of the barn so no one could sneak up on him.

Fortunately, he'd found a template in the tool shed, so he was able to work from that. The rain had soaked through his clothes, but the warmth of the woodstove and the heat from the massive animals below radiated up to where he was working, making it comfortable despite being drenched.

The wind howled whistling through the many cracks and crevices in the roof, and the thunder made him cringe, but he had a job to do now and focused all his will power on finishing.

He worked the wood, slicing down what he'd grabbed into the shape he was looking for. This was familiar; only he wasn't entirely sure how. There was something comforting about working with his hands. He also apparently knew what he was doing, as his hands manipulated the tools and wood with ease, almost as if it was second nature. He knew what he was doing; he just wasn't sure how he knew.

What had Barnes been before he was...well killed? He'd been a soldier, an American soldier during the Second World War. Sergeant James Barnes of the 107th. Okay. But what else? What had he been before that? Before the war, before Zola...and him, _The Winter Soldier. _

He tried to focus, but the harder he tried to focus on the specific memory, the more it seemed to allude him, only succeeding in making his vision spin and his head pound. It was so close and yet infinitely unattainable, just out of his reach.

Regardless, it was satisfying to watch the shingle take shape. To create rather than destroy. _It's a shingle, two shingles. _He reminded himself. _Only a shingle. Nothing more nothing less. _This wouldn't absolve him. Helping this woman wouldn't absolve him of what he'd done. But it was a start, wasn't it? _No._ Now he was being ridiculous. As if a single vaguely selfless act could even begin to touch the decades of horrors and atrocities he'd perpetrated. _But this was a choice, wasn't it? _He didn't have to do any of this.

He paused as the sound of footsteps approaching the ladder. He'd been so engrossed in what he was doing that he almost didn't hear the woman re-enter the barn.

"Hey." She announced her presence softly, doing her best to ease herself into his surroundings. "May I come up? I come bearing gifts."

He nodded, moving away from the ladder and loft's edge to give her adequate space.

"Ma'am." He nodded again in acknowledgment as she emerged from below. Her hair was still wet and sticking to the side of her face, and her chest rose and fell as if she'd just been running. She smiled, hauling her satchel onto the loft floor, slowly opened it to reveal the contents inside.

Two bottles of water and a dozen or so cylindrical objects wrapped in foil "Burritos. Easy to consume while you're working. How's your stomach doing? Do you think it can handle something that heavy?"

As if on cue, his stomach growled, and he realized that he was hungry despite the nausea earlier that had caused him to throw up. "We'll see." He said shortly.

She nodded sympathetically, glancing around at what he as doing. "You know you didn't have to do this." She motioned vaguely to the roof.

"You didn't have to do that." He said pointedly, motioning to the food she'd just brought up with his chin.

"That's not the same thing at all." She protested

"Payment for services rendered," He said flatly.

"I wasn't going to charge you." She replied crossly.

_You probably should. _He thought, but wouldn't say it out loud. After all, it wasn't like he had money he could pay her for feeding him and giving him a relatively dry and warm place to stay. This was _literally _the bare minimum he could do in exchange for what she was doing for him, free of charge, no questions asked. "I don't mind." He mumbled.

She nodded, looking down and away, "Thanks." She said in a small voice. "I do appreciate it."

They stood there in silence, uncertain of what to say. "Do you want help? She asked slowly after a moment.

"No. I can manage on my own."

"Because I can help you if you want me too." She said.

He paused, looking up at her, met her gaze. He knew she was talking about the roof. That's what she meant. The roof. That was her only meaning. But he could almost swear that she meant help him. Like, help him help him. How was he going to decline? How was he going to tell her no? After all, she was already doing so much, how could he tell her no?

Fortunately, he didn't have to. Her phone rang, making both of them flinch. "I'll be back. Enjoy lunch." She rushed down the ladder, leaving the satchel with the food and water on the loft floor. He exhaled slowly as her footsteps faded as she returned to the office. He could hear her talking; it was higher than her normal tone. There was something on edge about it, manic almost.

He looked down at the satchel. It was an old canvas, soaked through because of the rain, well worn with signs of patching and half-hearted repair. He looked up at the roof. On one of the trusses, he could spot three sets of initials meticulously carved into the wood, and yet the rest of the roof was in nearly the same state as the canvas satchel. The tools, the roof, the satchel, all telling the same story, but what it was, he couldn't be entirely sure what it was.

She had a lot of old shit she couldn't take care of? Perhaps, but there was something else at play here.

Maggie exhaled, hanging up the phone, massaged her temples.

It could've been worse, it could always be worse, but the rain certainly hadn't helped the day. She'd hoped to get some things around the place done outside, but now because of the storm that wasn't going to happen. Likewise, she'd had to reschedule five sessions because of the rain, and now to top it all off, the barn roof was leaking again.

Well, at the very least, Matt was dealing with the roof, though she wasn't entirely sure of if his help was a blessing or a curse. Really, it was just prolonging the inevitable. The reality that the roof had to be replaced but that she didn't have the funds to do so or the time and know-how to do it herself.

_Maybe I could pay Matt_. The thought bounced around in her brain before the sensible part of her put it to a stop. _No. You know nothing about him, and you can't take advantage of a homeless veteran._ At least she assumed he was a veteran and homeless. And anyway it wouldn't be taking advantage if she was paying him.

Regardless, it was messy. Even without the scary hobo in her barn, it was messy and complicated. There was money, but also time, and of course, she'd have to house the horses somewhere else during the roof's replacement.

She moaned softly, putting her head down on the desk amongst the snowdrifts of unopened mail, and squeezed her eyes shut, trying to stymie the pounding just behind her eyes. She could hear Matt working in the loft.

_What's his story? _She couldn't help but wonder. _Why on earth was he in this part of New York, and seemingly content to remain a resident in a barn? _He was unwell that she knew, but he was also without an apparent support network of any kind. Perhaps offering him work might not be such a bad thing. It would give him paid work and would solve her roofing issue. Then when he finished, she could likely give him a shining recommendation, and he might be able to pick up more steady work in the area if that's what he wanted.

It felt wrong, selfish, exploitive almost. She would pay the man; it just wouldn't be at market value. But, she reminded herself, she was giving him free room and board. As he'd so kindly pointed out, she didn't _have_ to do this, but to do otherwise, she felt would be a betrayal of Ranch's mission, of _her _mission.

She picked her head up and reached for the nearest scrap of paper and removed the pencil from her hair. She ran numbers a moment, reaching for the coffee mug sitting on the only bare corner of the desk. Sniffing experimentally, she took a big gulp of the cold, stale coffee.

Well, the coffee was shit, but she was going be able to afford to pay the scary hobo living in her barn a decent wage, so it wasn't all bad.

Downing the rest of the coffee, she rose and returned out into the main area of the barn. All sounds of work had fallen into silence, and now only sound was the pounding of the rain on the roof and the radio crackling out Bidi Bom Bom.

"Matt?" She called out walking toward the loft ladder.

"Ma'am?" She heard him shift up in the loft above her.

"Permission to come up?"

"Sure."

She climbed the ladder and found that he was sitting next to the leak applying roofing tar. "So." She began slowly, once she made it onto the floor of the loft. "How's it going?"

"Applying a temp patch." He answered shortly.

She nodded, watching him work a moment, trying to summon the courage to say what she wanted to say. This was a bad idea, a really really bad idea, but it was the best one she had, the _only _one she had at the moment. "So, I was thinking." She began slowly, he froze, his whole body tensing. "Oh. Oh. It's not bad." She rushed, "I'd like to pay you to fix my roof." She blurted out all at once.

"What?" He looked up at her, brows furrowed, sharp blue eyes piercing her with their gaze.

"I…well…you see the condition of the roof, and you seem to have the know-how. I'd be happy to pay you to replace the roof." She explained.

He looked away and down, his lips moving, his eyes focused on the floorboards. "You should probably hire a professional carpenter."

"I—just—please—." She stopped herself before she could continue. It was stupid, and she sounded desperate. She _was_ desperate. Asking some rando who'd stumbled into her barn to help her fix her decrepit barn roof wasn't exactly on the top of the list of non-desperate things to do. Maggie paused and took a deep breath, trying to ease the manic edge from her voice. "I appreciate your help today," She continued after a moment. "and as I said earlier, I would be happy to pay you for your work on the roof, regardless."

He nodded. "That really isn't necessary."

This was not going at all how she'd hoped. To be fair, Maggie wasn't entirely sure what exactly she'd expected was going to happen in this exchange. It wasn't this, that's for sure. "I-I-I I understand." She exhaled slowly. "Just thought I'd offer."

He said nothing, returning to the roofing tar and the leak.

"All right, good talk." She turned back to the ladder.

"Why do you want _my _help?" His voice stopped her, and she turned back around to face him.

Shit. What was she going to say? "I figured you could use the cash to get where you need to go, and I need a new roof. It seemed like a mutually beneficial solution to both of our immediate needs." She said omitting the fact that she couldn't afford a new roof, that the whole barn was held together via patch jobs, pure spite, and stubbornness, and that she was fucking desperate.

"Once the rain stops, I'll replace the two shingles you're missing." He said after a moment.

"Sounds like a good plan. Thanks." She nodded, collecting the empty water bottles, and satchel returned to the ladder and down to the office below.

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A/N: Would you guys be at all interested in the playlist I've created to go with this nonsense? I dunno. Just a thought.

As always, I hope you enjoyed, more next time, with the adventures of Bucky Barnes and this ranch, has some problems and also poor Ramirez who just wants a damn rest. We get to meet Bill and Mike, who, much like Suzanne and Maggie, are truly too good for this world.


	5. In Need of Professional Help

Marvel owns what it owns, I own what I own, let's keep it that way shall we?

TW: for suicidal ideation in this chapter.

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Chapter 5: In Need of Professional Help

The rain stopped around seven that evening. By then, however, the woman had already called it quits for the day and had returned to the main house. They hadn't spoken since their last conversation. She'd offered him a job, and he'd declined. He wasn't a carpenter. He wasn't even a handyman. He couldn't do what she was asking of him. It wasn't just that she was asking him to replace her roof, it was that she was asking him to stay. Roof repair took time. Time he couldn't guarantee.

He climbed out onto the roof, the new shingles tucked under his right arm. The roof was slick, which wasn't half so bad as feeling the wood flex and bend under his weight as he walked. Some of the shingles crumbling or sliding as he approached the leak he'd been working on for the afternoon. He was light on his feet, but he could hear them snap and crackle. Then the shingles under him gave way, and he grabbed the roof with his left hand to keep from falling off outright, right arm still wrapped protectively around the two new roof tiles. _Shit. Shit Shit. _He rose again, slowly and cautiously, looking at the fingertip-sized indentations in the shingles. All five digits perfectly marked in the soft rotting wood. They'd need to be replaced. He couldn't leave that kind of evidence around.

"Goddamn it." He muttered, yanking the hammer out of his jacket pocket, pulled up the offending shingle to reveal the rotting wood underneath. He stopped, squeezing his eyes shut. He'd just wanted to replace the two tiles that had resulted in the leak. He hadn't intended to replace the entire roof for this woman. He'd told her no_. _Quite specifically, because he couldn't spend the time replacing the roof. He couldn't just pull up the shingle and then not replace it, and he couldn't just replace the tile knowing the wood beneath it was rotting away.

_She needs professional help. _

"So do you, _pal, _" He muttered to himself, flexing the metal limb. He could feel something, a sensation in his spine that wasn't supposed to be there. A slight and faint buzzing, like when one of his actual limbs were falling asleep. He wasn't sure if it was an intentional flaw in the design of the arm by hydra to make him dependent on them, or if it was just that delicate. Regardless, it was going to become an issue sooner than he wanted or could afford.

He returned his attention back to the roof and steeled his resolve. He couldn't replace the whole thing, just the two damaged sections. The rest would have to be left to a professional. Crawling the rest of the way to the source of the leak, he secured the two new singles in place, examining the area around the leak. _That needs to be replaced soon too. _

_Not your problem. _He told himself firmly. Satisfied with his work, he turned and started back toward the loft window. There was a crackle, and he cringed as his foot went through the roof.

_Shit. _

Okay. Okay. He'd repair the sections of the roof he'd damaged. It would keep his location dry and warm for the duration of his stay, and keep him focused on other than the pounding in his skull and buzz in his spine.

He had work to do.

He didn't sleep that night, his brain was too loud, his thoughts too sharp, and the prospect of replacing at least two large sections of the roof was more than enough to keep anyone awake. Focus was the only way to keep his brain quiet, and shaping and prepping shingles would be enough to do just that.

How long had it been since Hydra had wiped him last? Two weeks? Three weeks? A month? Time was strange, and the days had melded together, he wasn't entirely sure. He didn't miss it. There wasn't anything about hydra worth missing, but there had been a certain quietness, a certain stillness of mind that he craved, much like his body craved the chemicals that they'd pumped him full of to keep him docile. It didn't last long, the calm serenity that came after a mind wipe. But for a moment there was absolute stillness, peace with a singular purpose, compliance. The goal of compliance and the reward that would come with it would occupy his blank mind before other things, other goals were crammed inside. Above all, compliance was key. Comply, and we won't hurt you, comply, and you won't go through another wipe. Comply, and you won't be put back under in the choking, suffocating cold. He hasn't always complied. It was why they'd kept him on ice. But that peace, that stillness was as addicting as the drugs.

Now he was nearly deafened by the loudness of his thoughts, the sharpness of the world around him even as his brain spun. There was no singular mission. Well, rather there was, survive and evade capture, but his brain was making it difficult to focus. The fullness of his mind and the memories that clouded his thoughts warped in and out of focus. The soldier's memories were sharper than those of Bucky Barnes, but they battled for dominance, threatening to rip his head in half.

The noise made it difficult to sleep, and even more difficult to focus, which was not aided at all by his continued nausea and dizziness. Whatever shit Hydra had pumped into him was taking its damn time clearing through his system, but he would push through. He didn't have a choice.

Focusing was easier when he was occupied. When he had a mission. So he found the tools and supplies he needed and started to work, pushing out everything else until it was the only thing that occupied his thoughts.

He flinched at the sound of the barn doors being pushed open. Blinking, he looked up and around his brain, registering the natural light streaming through the loft window. He'd apparently been too focused. "Good morn-" The woman started, but cut herself off. "Matt?" He looked down to see her face turned up toward him, her brows furrowed.

"Ma'am." He nodded in response.

"Morning?" She offered. She was holding a metal thermos in one hand, a satchel slung over her shoulders, a slip of paper in her free hand.

"Volunteers today?" He asked, motioning to the paper she was holding.

"Yes. Their to-do list." She nodded, turning she pushed the paper onto a large rusted nail protruding from one of the support beams. "Bill and Mike will be here in about thirty minutes." She paused, looking back up at him. "Would it be too hopeful to think you've reconsidered my offer?"

"There were several sections I damaged trying to patch the leak last night. I'm fixing those." He explained. He hadn't reconsidered her offer as such, it was rather his damn brain arguing with him that he couldn't leave the roof in that condition. It wasn't his problem, but rather what he could only assume was the last dying semblance of a conscious was making it his problem.

"Ah." She nodded, a deep crease of worry on her forehead. "Makes sense. I'd still like to pay you for your time, regardless."

He paused, glancing around. He could use the cash. He would need the money when he left here. He had several caches along his route, but between now and then, it would be scraping by, stealing if necessary. Having her_ pay_ him for his work would be a way to achieve the same ends without stealing. Yet, something in his stomach twinged. She couldn't hire a professional carpenter to fix her roof, and she was desperate enough to ask a strange man sleeping in her barn to do the work for her. He couldn't take her money for ethical reasons, never mind common decency. He nearly balked at the idea. Decency? Him? "Consider it volunteer work." He said finally after a moment.

A look, he wasn't sure if it was exasperation, amusement, or relief, passed over her face, and she nodded. "All right. But you may wanna put on the t-shirt Suzanne gave you. Wouldn't want anyone to think you'd accidentally stumbled into my barn at random and started doing pro bono carpentry for no apparent reason." Her sarcasm was thick, and a southern accent dripped from her words like poisoned honey, a wicked smile quirking at the corner of her mouth.

So she was aware of the absurdity of the situation. She wasn't an idiot. He wasn't sure if he should be concerned or relieved, but she wasn't wrong. She was also giving him cover so that he could avoid any inconvenient questions. "Right. Wouldn't want anyone to get that idea." He replied dryly, doing the best attempt at sarcasm he could manage at the moment.

Ramirez giggled. It was a light, soft sound. Unexpected, to say the very least. "I'll toss it up to you. I know climbing up and down that ladder can be a pain in the ass." She said. Moving to the stall, she scooped up the shirt. Folding and rolling it into a cylinder looked back up at him. "Don't judge me, Matt. I have terrible aim. You ready?"

He nodded, and she lobbed the shirt up at him with reasonable accuracy. He caught it easily.

"Nice catch!" She said, without a hint of the sarcasm she'd weaponized only moments before.

"Not a bad throw."

"Thanks." She smiled. "Food'll be on the inside of the stall when you're ready."

He nodded and watched as she returned to her morning routine, their exchange only a brief blip in the normal operations of the barn. He removed his jacket and sweater and pulled the t-shirt over his long-sleeved shirt before pulling on his other layers. He glanced down at the Last Chance logo emblazoned across his chest, partially obscured by his jacket. Now he had purpose and place.

He exhaled slowly, the morning air was sharp and made his chest ache, doing nothing to ease the other pain that tweaked and twanged. Then she turned on the radio which hummed below, and the other morning sounds of the barn filtered in around him, grounding him in the moment.

Consistency. Repetition. Unchanging and unaltered by the passage of time. _Soothing. _Was the only word he could think of to describe it.

Except she'd deviated from routine this morning. Ramirez had employed sarcasm. She'd giggled. She'd even smiled. People didn't do any of that around the soldier. _Well. _He amended. People did, it wasn't normally directed at him.

"Mike! Bill!" The woman's voice pierced the silence of the ranch. There was an excitement in her voice, masking the weariness he'd seen over the past few days.

"Ramirez." A gruff, male, voice replied.

There was an exchange between them that he couldn't quite catch before Ramirez concluded with a "Play nice gentlemen."

There was the crunch of gravel that indicated she was walking toward the pasture gate, and that two pairs of footsteps approaching the barn. He watched with bated breath as they entered the barn. _You belong here. Act like you belong here. _He reminded himself. She'd given him a t-shirt. By that logic, he did belong here, which was the only logic that mattered presently.

Two men entered. They were both male, white, stocky, and wearing last chance ranch t-shirts, jeans, and work boots. That was where the similarities ended. One was older than the other, perhaps in his mid to late 60s with a goatee and long grey hair pulled back in a low ponytail, though he couldn't help but notice, the length did nothing to make up for the fact the top was thinning. The other man was in his mid-30s, hair buzzed short, and was clean-shaven. He could also make out an array of burn scars on the man's hands and arms that peaked out of the collar of his shirt, and the older man walked with a slight limp. Veterans. They were both military or former military. They were, however, of no threat to him. Not immediately.

Both men looked up at him at the same time, their eyes running an evaluation of their own. What their findings were, he could only guess because their faces revealed nothing. "You Matt?" The older man asked gruffly, voice like gravel in a rock quarry.

"Yes, Sir."

"See you finally talked Ramirez into fixing the roof." He said.

"Drafted, actually."

The older man snorted. "That's a first for her." He nodded. "Well. Welcome aboard. I'm Bill, this is Mike." He motioned to the other man with his head. Mike wasn't paying attention and instead surveyed the list Ramirez had left critically.

"Whaddya got?" Bill asked, turning to look at the list over Mike's shoulder.

"Ehhh, the usual, mostly. Muck, troughs, hay for pasture one, some electrical issues in the outbuilding. There's an appointment at 10:30 and then at 1:00 and 3:00."

"Who do we need to have pulled and ready?"

"Muffin, McSmush, and Peachy," Mike answered.

Bill glanced up at him, "She must like you, Matt. Normally, she gives the greenhorns shit detail."

He paused like he was mulling something over. "With the state of that roof, it might be _worse_ than shit detail. Tough break, either way, kid."

"Yes, sir."

Bill paused, eyeing him. "Pen or service?"

He tensed. Was it obvious? Had he been made. He could feel his palms itch as he mentally plotted his escape route.

"Those are the types she likes to bring on. Army, Vietnam, and then a stint in prison for me. And Mike was Marines, Afghanistan, was it three or four tours?" Bill called to the younger man who was already mucking out stalls.

"Four." Mike corrected.

"You're in good company, Son," Bill said.

He nodded, uncertain of what to say. He was technically both a veteran and a former con, but he wasn't ready to divulge that information. "Yes, sir." He managed after a moment.

"Not a sir. Bill's just fine. Or Davidson."

"You don't have to be everyone's dad Davidson. Just let the guy work on the roof. He's gonna need all the time he can get on that little project." Mike cut in. "And when you're done with the welcome wagon, I'm ankle-deep in horse shit if you wanna roll out the wheelbarrow."

"Yeah yeah." Bill rolled his eyes. "Need anything just give a shout."

He nodded, and Bill walked outside. Mike caught his eye and nodded knowingly, but said nothing.

They both returned to work in silence, the only sound between them was the hum off the radio and the noise from their tools. Bill was in and out, exchanging brief bursts of conversations with Mike. Then two more people arrived. Bridget and Jonathan (whom they all referred to as Jonny) arrived an hour and a half later. Thirty minutes later, a lanky Hispanic young man named Mitchell, who was no more than 20 or so arrived, wearing long-sleeved under his t-shirt, his eyes were vacant, and he spoke softly and only to Mike or Ramirez who then translated to the other volunteers. From what he could tell, Davidson was in charge of the volunteers, and he doled out to each individual. They all knew one another and chatted amicably as they worked, walking in and out of the barn.

For his part, no one questioned his presence in the loft. Bridget and Jonny had both expressed their excitement that Ramirez was finally getting someone to patch the roof, and Mitchell had nodded but given him a thumbs up. He focused on his work but listened to their chatter.

This was a community how and why it had formed he didn't know, but at the center of it was the woman. A light seemed to emanate from her as she moved through the group, sharing this light and warmth with those around her. They all seemed to be pulled in by it and reached out to partake in the light she gave. A hand on the shoulder, a touch of the hand, a handshake, a tap on the arm, a hug. They were all here for different reasons, but Ramirez was the reason they had a place at all to come.

He had nearly four dozen roof tiles completed by the time she called for lunch. The group abandoned their present tasks and converged upon the picnic table just outside.

"Matt?" He looked down to see Ramirez standing at the foot of the ladder.

"Ramirez."

She cracked a smile. "You good?"

He nodded.

"I'll bring you some water and Gatorade. It's getting hot out there, I can't imagine how it is up top." She commented, turning nearly ran into Bill.

"Damn Ramirez, not going to let the guy down for lunch?" Bill came up behind her with a burrito and a bottle of water. "Go get lunch. You've earned it, kid. I got something for the new guy." He told Ramirez. Bill waited until she was gone before he approached the ladder.

Climbing nimbly, Bill reached the top. Setting the items on the loft floor, leveled his gaze on him. "Ramirez is a good one. One of the few left," He said shortly. Bill maintained eye contact, and something dark crossed the man's expression.

Ramirez had leveled a similar gaze on him only a few days before. It had been a warning. _No one hurts my people. _Davidson's expression was a threat. _You hurt her, and I kill you. _This was not an idle threat, and he had no doubt that Davidson would, or would do everything in his power, to follow up on his threat should something happen to Ramirez.

"She is." He agreed after a moment.

This seemed to satisfy the man because he nodded. "Good to have you on board." And without another word, Davidson descended down the ladder and returned outside.

He didn't take his eyes off Davidson until the man disappeared from view. He would've laughed the prospect of that man trying to threaten him, but he understood, and he found that he was almost _relieved_. It was good to see that someone had some sense. That someone was looking out for her, that someone around her could sense that he was dangerous. What Davidson would do with this information and how Ramirez would receive it was something else altogether.

Maggie watched as Bill walked from the barn and back toward the picnic table. Something was up. He'd been acting weird all day since she'd told him about Matt working on the roof. Then just a moment ago, when he'd called her kid. He hadn't called her kid in a damn long time. Like, since she almost knocked his teeth out for it almost six years ago. Something was bothering the man, and she was going to get to the bottom of it. "Bill. Did you get my electrical issue sorted?" She asked, pulling off her work gloves as she approached.

Bill looked up at her, surprise flashing on his face. "Wanna see?" He asked uncertainly.

"Yeah." She nodded.

"Lead the way, boss."

She walked over to the outbuilding, Bill following behind her. "In here?" She asked, motioning to the interior.

Bill nodded wordlessly, and they both entered the outbuilding, Maggie turned on the light, closing and locking the door behind her.

"I take it this isn't about the electrical issue," Bill said dryly.

"What's going on, Bill?" She asked.

"Where'd you dig that one up, Ramirez?" He asked, going and sitting down on the bench.

_Oh jeezus. _They were going to do this? Right now? This was bound to happen eventually, might as well get it over with now. "I understand that you're concerned, Bill, but believe it or not, the guy in my barn isn't my biggest problem right now."

"Christ, Ramirez, you can't take in every starved stray that stumbles into your barn." Bill shook his head.

"Seems a little hypocritical, William." She said dryly. "All things considered."

"That was different."

"Because it was you? What makes Matt any different than you?"

"You weren't the only one out here."

"Bill. Matt is harmless. He's had more than ample opportunity to hurt me and hasn't."

"He's dangerous."

"Based on what? You're dangerous, Mike's dangerous, Mitchell's dangerous, Mr. McSmush is dangerous."

"Now you're being stubborn, Ramirez."

"What do you want me to do, Bill?" She snapped. "Call the cops? What's that going to do for the poor bastard? Or me? Or anyone? He showed up in my barn a few nights ago and then decided to patch my roof, pro-bono. _Real _dangerous, scary shit, Bill." Maggie drawled.

"You tell Wilson?"

Maggie didn't say anything, she flexed her hands, taking everything she had not to take a swing at him. She wouldn't, but she wanted to.

"Have you?" He pushed.

"I'm here, Wilson isn't. He _doesn't _get say in what I do here now." She said, her voice low.

"Mags-"

"No, Bill. Stop." She cut him off.

"If this is about money, we can fundraise. We can get the money together for the roof. You don't have to get the vagrant to fix the roof for you. There are social services for cases like him. We can help him, but you can't do it alone," Bill said gently. "You can't save the world, not by yourself."

Maggie nodded, leaning against the wall, saying nothing. She wasn't trying to save the world. The world could burn for all she cared. She just wanted to keep her ranch, her clients, her volunteers, and her house afloat and operating. She wanted to feel well-rested. She wanted a break from feeling like she was at the end of her rope.

"What do you need?"

"A stiff drink and a massage." She said through a strangled sigh, massaging her forehead with her fingertips. "Neither of which I might add you are qualified to give out."

"I wasn't going to go there, Ramirez." Bill chuckled, rising to his feet, crossed the small outbuilding, and clapped her on the shoulder. "You have a big heart. That's what we all love about you. What Underdahl and Wilson loved about you. I don't want to see you get hurt because of it."

Maggie surveyed him a moment before nodding. "I appreciate your concern, Bill, but trust me." She didn't know how to finish that. She didn't have a plan. She didn't have the energy to come up with a plan. She just had to ask Bill, ask all of her volunteers and clients to trust that she would get them through this. She could barely keep a roof over her horses' heads, never mind one over her own.

"Okay." Bill nodded, checking his watch. "You have an appointment in ten. You should probably eat something before then." He unlocked the door and opened it, walking outside.

Maggie closed the door behind him and leaned against it. She could feel her shoulder sag. She blinked and reached for the chain around her neck. She ran her finger through the larger of the two gold bands and sighed. _No time to feel sorry for yourself. _She had work to do.

The rest of the afternoon proceeded without incident, and around five o'clock, the last vehicle pulled from the drive and out onto the main road. Maggie stood and waved them off. As the sound of the truck faded into the distance, the smile seeped from her expression. Sighing, she rubbed her face wearily and toward the barn. There she saw his dark frame standing in the doorway motionless, his eyes surveying her. Cold. Calculating. Maggie shook her head. _Does he mean to be so scary? Or is it an amplified bitchy resting face type situation? Does he smile? Every? What would that even look like? _She didn't know.

She should really listen to Bill. She_ knew _she should listen to Bill. The man _was _dangerous. She'd seen it in his eyes when she'd first discovered him. There was just no way to get him to social services without it turning into a _situation. _She wanted to avoid a situation at all costs.

"Everything all right?" She asked, approaching the barn.

"Update on your roof." He explained shortly.

She nodded, and he motioned for her to follow him. Around at the back of the barn was a ladder, an array of old shingles laying on the ground around it. "See you found what you needed." She commented.

"Your tool shed is very well stocked," He agreed.

"Up?" She motioned up the ladder.

"After you."

They climbed onto the roof, walking cautiously toward the spot the old shingles had come from. Rotted. Her heart sank, and she glanced up at him. He was watching her, his face stony and unreadable.

"You _really _should think about getting a professional." He said shortly.

_I can't afford a professional! _She screamed silently. It felt like a black hole, and any second, she would be subjected to spaghettification. Perhaps that was what was already taking place, and she was being stretched so thin that there was hardly anything left of her. Maybe she had already reached the event horizon, and no one else could tell she was being sucked downward. "Thank you for your help. I guess patch what you can. I'll make a few calls." She swallowed back the tears that had been threatening to overtake her since her conversation with Bill in the outbuilding. She turned to go back to the ladder, her foot slipping, she could feel her center of gravity start to pull down and toward the edge of the roof. Then, just as she was getting ready to go over, a hand grabbed her arm and pulled her back.

She looked up into Matt's face. Still, nothing in his expression. He pulled his hand back as if he'd been burned. "Thanks." She said. _He could've let me go over the edge. _She immediately thought. _He should've. _She couldn't help but add.

"No problem." He replied flatly.

"Let me know if you need anything. I'll be around." Maggie said finally before making her way to the ladder.

Her head felt like it was spinning. It would be time to bring the horses in for the evening feed, and then once they bedded down, she could start looking for someone to fix the roof. She paused, planting her feet firmly on the ground, turned to look out at Ghost's enclosure. After, of course, she did her daily socialization exercises with that spooked creature. _Well, ONE of the spooked creatures in this godforsaken place. _

She should listen to Bill. Take him up on the offer to fundraise for a new roof. But she couldn't let them know how bad it was, how bad it had gotten. The place was literally rotting from within, and she was all but powerless to prevent its outright collapse. How had it come to this? How had it gotten this bad?

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A/N: I hope you enjoyed! R&R or just fav and sign up for alerts! TNKS!


	6. Chores and Choices

Author's Note: Marvel Owns what it owns, and I own what I own. Let's keep it that way, shall we? Please don't sue me!

TW: suicidal ideation; PTSD flashback

Funny enough, this would be roughly considered the "montage" sequence in any given Disney or animated film, although, after much discussion, this fic has a far more Dreamworks than Disney vibe to it. (recommended listening includes Tarzan and Road to El Dorado soundtracks. Yanno, despite the dark themes)

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Chapter 6: Chores and Choices

He watched her descend the ladder and then much later return to the farmhouse after the evening feed had been completed. He was starting to get a clearer picture of what was going on. She wasn't an idiot, or oblivious to the danger that he posed. She wasn't blind to what was going on. There was no way she could be. The expression on Davidson's face told him that the man knew he was dangerous, and he wasn't likely to keep that to himself. She wasn't an idiot. She was desperate. The near-paralyzing fear that had come over her when he'd told her not once but twice that she needed to get a professional to look at the roof, the well-used tools that had gone to rust in her toolshed along with the drywall. There was all of the roofing material she needed to repair the barn, the outbuilding, and the main house three times over. She was alone out here, but she hadn't always been. And now she was at her wit's end, and she was desperate. Desperate enough to ask for his help when she knew, or at the very least had a strong suspicion that he was dangerous. Desperate enough where a leaky roof was more dire than falling from that roof.

It made so much more sense to him that she was desperate rather than acting on some kind of strange, wholly altruistic urge. She needed him to fix her roof, and he needed her not to raise an alarm that the Winter Soldier was living in her barn. At least until he was able to get his collective shit together long enough to continue north. For the moment it was mutually beneficial to both of them. At least that is what he could tell himself to ease some of the guilt that had started to build in the back of his mind.

He was endangering these people with his presence, but so long as he could somehow convince himself that he was _helping_, he could justify laying low here for a little while longer.

When he finally lost light, he settled down into the fresh hay that had been spread in stall ten. Opening the food that Ramirez had left that morning, his stomach growling, he ate in silence and thought about what he'd seen throughout the day, trying to sort through his muddled thoughts. His head was loud. He was remembering more, the memories were coming in sharper, more defined than before, haunting him in his sleep and in the waking hours now too. He was thinking as both the Soldier and as James Barnes if that was possible.

What would the Soldier do? Move on. Leave no evidence that he was ever there. He knew that much. But he also knew that he needed supplies, needed to be able to move quickly and without pause, which at the moment was a problem for him. James Barnes? James Barnes, on the other hand, wanted to help. Wanted to help this woman. She'd asked him for his help and had thus far been an invaluable ally. She would be able to secure the proper supplies necessary for whenever he made his move north. Was that James Barnes? Or was that the Soldier? Looking to extract the highest value from a given asset before moving on? He didn't know.

He fell into a fitful slumber, every noise pulling him from his sleep until finally, he woke to the sound of nothing but restless silence in the barn.

He rose, blinking at the light streaming through the barn's loft window, and glanced around. Ramirez wasn't there. He looked up at the clock. She was late, he could feel it, and so could the horses. Their energy reeked of nervousness, and it was putting him on edge.

Walking from the stall, he slowly proceeded toward the office in one of the rooms off of the main barn. He wasn't entirely sure what he was looking for, but he had a feeling that he'd know it when he saw it. Opening the door to the office, he stopped. The desk was piled high with envelopes, scraps of papers with various numbers were hung on the board on the wall in front of the desk, very nearly obscured by the envelopes and other unopened mail. Hanging on the wall beside the corkboard was a photo of Ramirez with a man: white, lanky, with sandy hair. They were standing side by side, the sign for Last Chance Ranch behind them. The man, who was wearing aviator sunglasses, was addressing the camera directly, but Ramirez was looking up at him. There was an expression of absolute adoration on her face, a radiance in her eyes. Love. This was Underdahl. This was her husband.

_She's a widow_. He decided. Surveying the photo closer he saw that the man, Underdahl, was wearing an Air Force shirt. She's a military widow. So the ranch for veterans made sense. Or a bit more sense than before. She had or likely still has personal ties to the military, and a personal reason to want to keep the place going. But why risk it all for one man? _Why risk it all for me?_

_She doesn't know she's risking it all for me._ He reminded himself. She doesn't know she's harboring the Winter Soldier. _Mutually beneficial, remember? _But it hadn't started that way. He'd stumbled into her barn half dead, and she'd been the one to make the decision to not involve the authorities. It had only devolved into mutually beneficial whenever he'd discovered the leak in her roof. _So, why hadn't she called the cops in the first place?_

He shook his head. He wasn't in here to delve into her personal matters.

He shut the door and went to the next one. This one had all sorts of saddles and other riding equipment. On the wall, there was a whiteboard. Each of the horses' names was written out, with feeding instructions, their favorite treats, feed restrictions, as well as grooming instructions. Ghost was at the bottom and, in addition to all the other information, his had several annotations "Trust + Weight = GEN POP May 31, 2014, or BUST" was written in large block letters.

Along the walls, there were rows of saddles, each of them labeled. There was also a yolk and harness set up for the Clydesdale, Shadow. Everything was neat, organized, and in its place. A stark contrast to the office only feet away.

"Matt? What are you doing?"

He turned to find her standing behind him, she looked frazzled, her dark eyes heavily ringed with circles and slightly bloodshot, her expression weary, while riddled with confusion, edging on suspicion. "The horses were restless, looking for feed specs," He managed.

"Oh." She said, shortly. "You didn't have to do that. The horses can be big babies when they're not fed right on time. But I see that you found it."

He nodded. "Do you need help?"

"You're already helping me with the roof." She commented, removing a large water bottle and a couple burritos from her satchel and extended them to him.

"Thanks." He said as he took the items from her.

"About yesterday. I'm sorry if Bill came off a little strong. He can be a bit overbearing at times, particularly with new people."

"I didn't notice."

"Oh. Oh, that's good." She exhaled quickly as if relieved.

So she knew Davidson was concerned or otherwise unhappy about his presence, enough that Davidson might actually say something to him about it. There was a pause, and Ramirez looked like she was going to say something, but then at the last minute thought better of it. "Guess I should hop to." She sighed, turning stuck a to-do list on the same rusted nail as she had the day before.

He nodded and climbed up the ladder resuming his place in the loft, setting the meal she'd brought for him down before climbing out onto the roof.

Mike and Bill arrived first, just like the day before, and they nodded their greeting before starting on the extensive to-do list. How had she managed to keep people out of the barn when he'd been delirious? Had she lied? What had she told them? Certainly, a half-dead man in your friend or colleague's barn would be cause to call the authorities. It would have been reasonable if not advisable for her to call someone, anyone, yet it didn't appear that she had or would. Unless this was normal for her and for the volunteers of Last Chance Ranch, that she was just known for taking in strays. It seemed like the most likely scenario. The outbuilding, with its extra toiletries and non-perishable items, was an indication of that. It was possible that none of them had lingered as long as he had.

He tried not to think too much about his current situation. Fortunately, it didn't hurt as much to focus and think, but the rest of his body felt like one gigantic bruise, throbbing and aching, while the buzzing in the prosthesis was only getting worse. That, he couldn't do much about that at the moment. He'd have to suffer through that, or risk being detected and caught. His only task at the moment was to finish the roof so he could get out of here.

"Hey Matt, you coming to the cookout on Friday?"

The man's voice pulled him from his thoughts and he blinked as he looked around and down to see Mike standing at the foot of the ladder. "Pardon?"

"Sorry about that, didn't know any other way to get your attention." Mike said apologetically. "Just wanted to let you know, Ramirez is having a cookout on Friday for the April birthdays, clients and volunteers are all invited."

"She hadn't mentioned anything." He replied.

"Well that doesn't surprise me, she's been a bit scattered lately. You should come. It's a good time." Mike commented. Then without waiting for a response, he walked away.

Why hadn't Ramirez invited him, but Mike had thought to? And she did this every month? Well, naturally. She was building a community here. She had cultivated and created this, so of course, she would do this for her volunteers and clients every month. If she put her mind to it, she'd make a dangerous political or social activist. He'd killed people on Hydra's behalf for less.

The thought pulled him back, stopping him in his mental wandering. It made his stomach twist and twinge. _That isn't my life anymore. I don't want that life._ It was strange to even have the thought of 'I want.' Like he had any choice or say in the matter. His only option was to keep out of Hydra's hands. Everything after that was secondary.

He winced, his head spinning as a white-hot flash of pain flared at his temples. It was like they knew. Hydra. They were still in his head, and they knew he was fighting them. They were That nagging itch in the back of his brain yelling, screaming to end it, telling him the only way to silence the voices was to put a bullet in his brain. He wouldn't listen. He couldn't. Hydra had found him half-dead and retooled him for the purposes before. They would and could do it again, over and over as many times as it took to subdue him permanently.

The rest of the day passed quietly, and as day turned to dusk, he was vaugely aware that Ramirez had flipped on the floodlights around the secondary enclosure, and was sitting on the bench just outside the fence, legs crossed, watching the gray horse alone in the enclosure. She had already brought in the other horses and completed the evening feeding.

Then just as he lost light entirely, he collected his tools and started down the ladder. He was almost to the last wrung, when a voice stopped him.

"Hey!" She called.

Taking the last steps, he turned squarely to face her. "Ma'am." She was twisted around, watching him, and he realized that she must've walked into the main house while he wasn't paying attention. She was wrapped in an embroidered shawl, and her hair was down, and it streamed in long dark waves, midway down her back, her satchel sat beside her.

"And we'd been doing so well." She cracked a small smile. His expression must've conveyed confusion because she added. "You called me Ramirez earlier, we were making progress."

"Right," he said dryly.

"I brought you dinner," She motioned to the satchel. "And I'm eating mine if you'd like to join me."

An invitation? She knew she was dangerous, Davidson had told her as much. She knew he was. She was just desperate. So she was willing to overlook it. The question then became. Why? Why take the risk, aside from sheer desperation of it all? She wouldn't risk her life, livelihood, and the safety of her clients and friends for a bit of pro-bono carpentry, would she? Though if she was willing to do so, she was far more cold-blooded than he would begin to give her credit for. But that wasn't it. That wasn't it at all.

The woman looked him up and down uncertainly, trying to figure out why he was just standing there. 'Why am I just standing here?' He reflected.

He watched as she opened her satchel and removed a thermos and a plastic bag with tortillas inside. "Calibasita." She said shortly, extending both items to him.

"What?"

"Squash and pork stew." She explained quickly.

"Oh." He nodded, crossing the distance between them took the items from her.

Glancing down, he saw that there was a crumpled protein bar wrapper beside her, but there was no other indication of the 'meal' she'd said she was eating. Then, for a reason he couldn't quite explain, he sat down beside her on the picnic bench. The woman said nothing, but there was an air of satisfaction to her expression.

Mike had said she was a little scatterbrained recently. Was it because of him? He licked his lips as he thought through what he wanted to say. "Mike mentioned something about a cookout." He said slowly.

"Oh. Shit. Yeah. I totally blanked on that; Friday evening, hotdogs, hamburgers, non-alcoholic beverages, you're welcome to join if you'd like." Unlike with Mike, there was a level of expectation to her tone. She wanted to know what his plans where, if he planned on being around that long. He didn't know. He knew he couldn't stay any longer than absolutely necessary, which was contingent on how his brain reacted to a prolonged time away from Hydra and the roof.

"I appreciate the offer." He said finally.

That seemed to satisfy her because she nodded. A cold gust of wind blew around them, and she drew the shawl closer to her. It was heavily embroidered with flowers in bright colors that clashed with the rest of her attire: rubber boots, faded, tattered jeans, and a plaid button-down flannel rolled up to her elbows. She was rolling a pencil between her palms, chewing on the inside of her mouth, expression pinched in concentration.

He unscrewed the lid to the thermos and frowned. The scent wafting up, conflicting what his brain was expecting. Bringing the thermos to his nose, sniffed it experimentally before pouring some into the thermos lid and taking a sip. The taste of chocolate and the slightest hint of chili burned his tongue. _Hot chocolate?_ He poured more into the lid, cupping it in both hands, inhaled the warm vapors the smell of chocolate, cinnamon, and again the chili. It had been a while since he'd had anything this sweet. He took another sip, and the warm filed him, pooling in his stomach and settled in his chest.

"How's it?" She asked, though her tone was distant.

"The squash stew?"

"Yeah? Why-" She cut herself off as she turned to face him. "Oh shit. Sorry." She rushed, turning back to the satchel and removed an identical thermos and set it down beside the one he'd opened with hot chocolate in it.

He wasn't even hungry, his body was used to surviving on far few calories. But the hot chocolate, it was something different, something that he hadn't in a very very long time. His body remembered it, remembered that it was comforting, soothing, and even though the chili made his tongue burn, he took another sip.

"You don't mind the Chili?" She asked uncertainly. Taking the open thermos poured some into her mug.

"No."

"I mean your stomach. I know chili can do terrible things to sensitive stomachs."

"Oh." He hadn't thought about it, and he paused to take stock. He hadn't actually had to think about his stomach all day. It seemed to have settled. "No." He repeated.

"Glad to hear it." She nodded, taking a sip from her own mug, before looking back down at the journal open in her lap and making a few annotations.

He finished the hot chocolate and opened the squash stew pouring some into the bowl. He heard the rustle of plastic and looked down to see that she'd pushed plastic-wrapped single-use utensils across the bench between them. "Thanks." He mumbled, taking the utensils, unwrapped them, and started eating in silence.

She didn't ask questions or watch him eat. So far as he could tell, she was in her own world, working on something in the notebook in front of her. She scribbled something in her journal and closed it was a snap. She gathered up her hair, winding it in a loose bun, and stuck the pencil through the mass to secure it. Then the woman's hands went to the chain around her neck, fiddling absently with the two gold bands a moment.

_Wedding bands?_ He couldn't help but think of the photograph back in the office, almost entirely obscured by the pile of envelopes. She had been smiling, really smiling, in the photo, and had a radiance about her that was all but completely gone now. Was her husband the reason she was doing this? Was she carrying on for him? How long had it been since he'd died? What had the ranch been like before he had died? Was that why she was so desperate to pretend that nothing was wrong? His mind spun with the questions that he wanted to ask. _It's not my place. You don't have any business here other than finishing the roof. _

Unprompted, she dropped her hands to the side and rose. Climbing down from the picnic bench, she approached the fence. The horse picked up his head, watching her warily as she stepped between the fence railings, and entered the enclosure. He said nothing, watching intently as she marched purposefully around the fence perimeter, pulling the shawl closer to her as a gust of wind blew around them.

He finished off the squash and pork stew, his eyes never leaving the woman and the massive animal she was walking around. He'd heard some of the volunteers and Ramirez talking about this horse. Ghost is what they had called him. Suzanne had mentioned him too. The woman was working on socializing him, he'd been abused and had been massively underweight when Suzanne had brought him to her. Why? Why did she care? Why did she want to do any of this?

Ramirez walked the perimeter of the fence, talking indistinctly in soothing tones to the horse, in Spanish and then in English, and then in Spanish again. Her eyes focused on the massive animal.

_It could kill her if it wanted to._ He couldn't help but think. She was a tenth of its weight and size. It would be easy, almost effortless for the creature, yet she walked with confidence and ease, offering words of comfort and encouragement to the massive animal.

Why was she willing to risk her life to help this creature? What was in it for her? What could she possibly gain? He stopped himself. That line of questioning was dangerous. It was the same line of questioning that applied to him. Why was she helping him, and why did she seem to trust him? Her volunteers had earned her trust, there had probably been an application and a rigorous screening process. He'd just stumbled into her barn half-dead, yet she'd taken him without question or apparent hesitation. Yes, she was desperate, or at least that's what he'd decided. Regardless of all of that, he was the beneficiary of this woman's misplace kindness and generosity. There has to be an angle. There is always an angle, a motive. _Well, you're fixing her roof, aren't you?_ Yes, but that had been a cascade of circumstances that had led to this particular arrangement. She couldn't have possibly planned for this. _Why is she doing this?_ He exhaled sharply, shaking his head, which just made his head spin. _Why protect me? _

Wordlessly he returned the thermos to her satchel, collected the garbage from the utensils, and walked back toward the barn. When he looked back, she was still talking to Ghost, walking around the enclosure alone.

The next day came, much like the ones before, volunteers in and out of the barn, clients at various intervals, and he was up on the roof looking down over it. It unusual having people move around him with ease, without worry or care about what he was doing. It was an invisibility of sorts he'd utilized as the Soldier but was now using to observe the inhabitants of the ranch.

A mid-afternoon shower drove him inside and the last of the volunteers to their cars. Covering the roof with a tarp, he retreated to the interior of the barn. Ramirez came through only moments later through the barn doors with Shadow the Clydesdale and Duchess Cookie Cake, the black and white speckled regular-sized horse, all drenched. She laughed, leading both horses to the center of the barn, which had a tie off, and went to the radio, adjusting the station, Tejano filled the barns with its crackling tones.

Ramirez looked up at him in the loft and smiled, water dripping from her hair and face. "How's the roof going?"

"Slowly."

"Yeah. I bet with this rain." She agreed with a nod. "So, this is a strange thing to ask all things considered, but you ever been around horses before, Matt?"

It was a strange thing to ask, all things considered, he'd been lodging with and around horses for over a week now. "No." He shook his head. That was unless he counted the time at Coney Island he'd seen Brooklyn Supreme. _Or that time that one time when you were six, and you wanted to be Zorro and ride around on Tornado. _He blinked. It was a strange thing to remember. Such random and irrelevant thought to have. Out of all of the things coming back, that one factoid._ I wanted to be Zorro when I was a little kid?_ He couldn't quite wrap his mind around it. A masked vigilante, he would've laughed at the irony if it wasn't leaving a bitter taste at the back of his throat.

Her voice pulled him from his thoughts. "Wanna learn some of the basics while we wait out this rain?" She asked.

He hesitated. What was he going to say, No? Well, he could. There was nothing about this interaction that indicated Ramirez would be upset or otherwise offended if he declined. It just seemed...rude. Rude? The fact that politeness and manners were coming into this at all was laughable. Almost. He could hear a stern voice with a matching careworn face, not too unlike the Suzanne's, telling him to sit up straight and say please and thank you.

"I could use an extra pair of hands. Shadow and the Duchess need to be shod." She said. "I'll show you how to pick out hooves and then give them both a good brushing." Ramirez paused, "I'll be right back."

He watched her go into the tack room, and there was the sound of wheels rolling on the wood floors, which stopped with a resounding crash followed by swearing. She wasn't going to ask for his help, she hadn't even really asked for his help with the horses or the roof, but she obviously needed it.

_Choice. _That's what she'd said the other day. _Choosing to be a good person or a bad person. _Hopping down from the loft, walked to the tack room where the large wheeled cart had fallen over, the trays and their contents spread out on the floor. Ramirez was on her hands and knees, trying to collect the horseshoes and tools that had scattered.

"Let me help with that." He mumbled, moving into the tack room, and the cart.

"Oh no, you don't- it's really...heavy" She stammered out as he lifted the cart easily, setting it upright. Ramirez glanced between him and the cart, opening and closing her mouth. "Than-thanks." She managed after a moment picking up what had been dropped, returned it to their respective places. Standing up, she dusted herself off, breathlessly. "Thank you. Really. That would've been too heavy for me to lift on my own fully loaded down like that."

"Oh. It's fine."

"Do you think you could help me roll this out there?" She asked meekly. There was an edge, jagged and rough, to her voice, as if she was ready to cry.

He nodded, and She stepped back. Wordlessly he moved the rolling cart out to where she'd tied the horses, watching her body language relax slightly, the tension from her shoulders easing. "Just between them, please." She interjected quickly, and he adjusted in response.

When the cart was in place, he moved away and watched as she opened and closed the drawers, returning all of the spilled contents back in their place. Finally, she opened the top drawer and removed a metal hook (that looked more akin to a torture device than a farm implement) and a round metal brush, setting them atop the cart. She didn't look at him, didn't address him, or ask him if he would help. She just picked up the metal hook and moved to Shadow. The horse's back was easily a head taller than her, but she picked up one of the massive hoofs, stepped over it, straddling it between her thighs. Then she took the metal hook and started scraping the bottom. All in a single fluid, confident motion.

"All right city, slicker. Horses 101." She began. "Horses are prey animals. So that means their eyes are set on the side of their heads; it gives them pretty good vision to spot potential predators. However, this does mean that they have two massive blind spots," She continued talking about how to approach the animal, what to do, and what not to do. It was clear from her tone that she on autopilot. Her voice was chipper to the point of being almost brittle, but he found that he was fascinated. Not because of the information she was giving him, that was all self-explanatory, but the authority with which she spoke.

He bent his focus to the woman's motions as she set the massive hoof down.

"So, what are you doing?" He asked, watching as she moved to the next hoof.

"Well, come here and I'll show you." She motioned for him to stand over her shoulder. When he'd done as instructed, she continued. "So the hoof for a horse is rather like human fingernails, it grows and has to be trimmed. Much like fingernails, the hoof is also brittle. So to prevent the hoof from cracking, we put metal shoes on the bottom. Now, because most horses spend their time in some kind of soft, muddy, grassy combo, they get all sorts of stuff compacted against the sole of their feet. What this hook does is scrape out and make sure there isn't anything stuck to the bottom." She explained, "You want to avoid the frog, but the sole you can scrape out." She explained, motioning to the various parts of the hoof with the end of the hook. "Here. Give it a try." She extended the pick to him.

He took it in his hand, weighing the implement in his hand a moment before taking the metal hook to the horse's hoof. He slowly picked out the hoof, minding the frog.

When he finished, he glanced up at her. She wore a proud expression. "Very good." She commented. "You think you can manage the other ones? So I can get onto the business of shoeing."

He nodded, and she let go of the massive hoof. "Then, when you're done with that, you can brush them both down." She commented as she moved to the rolling rack of tools, opening and closing various drawers.

She'd said it so casually he almost hadn't realized it was an instruction, rather than a suggestion. "Can I?" He countered dryly.

"If you want." She shrugged. "Small stokes in little circles gets all the dirt out."

She knew he was going to heed her instruction. It wasn't a trick, not as such, but it was very clever. It wasn't exactly the same as the Tom Sawyer whitewashing gambit, but it was a way to get people to help without actually ever asking them. There wasn't anything that was forcing him to comply. He felt compelled to help. He _wanted_ to help because while she was roping him into her chores, he did have a choice. He had a choice without repercussions, good or bad. _A choice._

Then, suddenly, the buzzing in the prosthesis intensified, and he dropped the pick, wincing.

"You okay?" She asked.

"Fine." He bit out shortly, flexing the limb, scooping up the pick with his right hand, went to the next hoof, cleaning it out with ease. Continuing to the last hoof, the massive animal moved and responded to his touch, just as it had to Ramirez.

"Same thing with the other?" He asked

She had just pulled out the first shoe and was now working the hoof with a rasp. She was humming along to the music; her focus bent on what she was doing. She moved deftly and with ease, and again despite the animal's size, she was in total control of the situation.

She hadn't heard him, which meant she wasn't watching him or paying attention. He glanced down at the pick. His mind immediately ran through exactly what he could do with an implement like that. His stomach turned. _You're still a weapon, even if she doesn't see it. It just means you're a very well disguised weapon._

Shaking his head, he started toward the other horse, and it jerked away.

"Horses can tell the type of energy you're bringing to the interaction." She commented, without looking up. "Be aware of how you're approaching the horse, the energy and intent you're bringing into the interaction. Mindfulness is key." She coaxed. "Take a deep breath and try again."

He glanced over at her. She hadn't skipped a beat, hadn't even glanced up. Was she giving him an impromptu session, like he was one of her clients? Like he was James or any of the others? His mind wandered to what he'd seen written under Ghost's name on the whiteboard. _Trust + Weight = Gen POP. Or BUST! _Was she doing the same thing to him? Trying to gain his trust so she could get him help? Was that her long term goal? It made about as much sense as anything else.

He exhaled, focusing on the task she'd given him and made another attempt to approach the horse again. This time he was able to get close enough to pick out the hooves.

When he was done with that, he retrieved the brush and began brushing down Duchess Cookie Cake, which gave him a good vantage point to watch her as she worked. She was shaping a second horse shoe now, beating it with a hammer into the correct shape for the Clydesdale's massive hoof.

"Blacksmith?" He asked.

"Ferrier." She replied. "Shoeing horses is part of the gig, and I've been around it all my life. Which is why I make it look easy." She added with a smirk.

"Ah." And she was making it look easy.

"I mean, I took some metal working, shop classes, and did a semester's worth of welding."

"But not carpentry?" He asked wryly.

She paused, stopping what she was doing, and met his gaze. "No. Not carpentry. Never got around to it." She said, returning to her work, "What about you? Jack of all trades, but master of none?"

"Better than a master of one." He concluded.

She chuckled to herself, "That is how it goes, isn't it." She paused, "I'm about halfway done with Shadow. If you wanna brush the old girl out, she would appreciate it."

They continued their work in silence, and he was finished with his part before she finished shoeing the Duchess.

"Sounds like the rain's stopped. It should be clear for the rest of the day." She commented. "If you could lead Shadow back out to the pasture, Duchess Cookie Cake and I aren't quite done. Bring the lead line back with you."

Again there was the instruction phrased like a suggestion. Was that her way of getting around outright asking? Was that how she'd managed to outsmart her pride and sheer stubbornness to allow herself to ask for help? He didn't know but wordlessly led the massive animal out toward the pasture. The grass was soaked, and the air was damp, but it looked like the clouds were burning off for the day just as Ramirez had said. He swung open the gate and unclipped the lead line. Closing the gate after the horse, he froze at the sound of a voice behind him. "Hey!"

He turned to see an African-American man approaching him. "Can I help you?" He asked curtly.

"You must be the new guy, Matt, right?" The man stopped and extended his left hand, the right t-shirt sleeve tied in a tidy bow. "James." He took the man's left hand and shook it. "Pleasure to meet you. Word is your helping Ramirez fix the barn roof." James said, letting go of his hand.

"Yes," He answered shortly, watching James closely. It was the man from the barn a few days earlier, but there was something familiar about him, something that he couldn't quite place on the timeline, something from _before_.

"Is she around?"

He blinked, the man's voice bringing him back to present. "Pardon?"

"James?" Ramirez appeared in the barn doorway and proceeded out toward them. "I thought I heard your voice. What's going on?" She walked toward them, concern, and worry on her expression.

"Oh. Nothing bad. Out for a drive with my girls. Molly wanted to see if the horses were out."

"Good. Good." She exhaled, a warm smile spreading over her. "McSmush is all wet from the rain earlier. But the Duchess just had a spa day. Would that work?"

"Absolutely," James nodded. He motioned to the car, and an African woman with long braids climbed out, followed by a young girl with an Afro. "Nice to meet you, Matt, see you around," James called as Ramirez led him toward the barn to greet the two women.

He said nothing, an icy chasm opening in his stomach. He climbed the ladder, even as the gnawing intensified. He remembered the man from somewhere.

The whole family was in the barn below, Ramirez talking them through how to saddle a horse. They were going for a ride.

He blinked, trying to focus on what he was doing. He was up high on the roof now, looking down at the ranch below. _It's a figment of your imagination. Focus. Focus!_ He pulled the tarp off the roof and watched as it floated down to the wet grass, leaving the gaping hole in the roof exposed.

There was a burst of laughter from Ramirez, the man's wife, and Molly, his daughter.

He exhaled a shaking breath, squeezing his eyes shut. The wind picked up, and the air felt dry in his lungs, dryer than it had been even before the rain shower earlier in the afternoon. He could feel himself slipping away. Slipping into the _before. _He opened his eyes. There were footsteps down below, and he watched as James and James's family, along with Ramirez, walked with the black and white horse down toward the round pen.

Only it wasn't _exactly_ right. The wind blew, and it was dry and hot. The open area below him wasn't grass and mud, it was a dirt and sand streaked road, lined by bombed-out buildings riddled with bullet holes on either side. He was up high, up higher than just on top of a barn. He was dug in on a rooftop overlooking the American Marines on patrol. They were guarding a Humvee and a tank as they went through the center of town. The initial sweep had missed him, so he didn't have much time. He leveled his gaze on the security detail, his mission to destroy the tank and make the American forces scatter. He looked through the scope, James looked up at him, making eye contact.

He blinked, glancing around. Molly was laughing, she and James's wife were both on top of the horse while Ramirez and James were leading the horse around the round enclosure.

_Get off the Roof. Seek cover you've been compromised. _His brain screamed. He scrabbled down from the roof through the loft roof and retreated to the far corner of the stall. He'd pulled the trigger, he was the reason James was here at the Ranch.

His head pounded, practically screaming, though what it was screaming he couldn't make out. The four walls of the stall closed around him, providing him cover and comfort, almost like the cell that Hydra had placed him in between missions.

_Safe. You're safe. _He tried to tell himself, but it was drowned out by the screaming. His screaming, the screaming of the people down below in the street, the other screams that blurred and warped together into a single voice.

_End it. End it before it's too late. You owe these people that._

But he was helping, wasn't he? He was helping her, with the roof, that had to count for something, didn't it?

No. It didn't. It didn't matter, none of it did. Not why she was doing all of this, not why she was desperate, not why she hadn't called the cops on him when he'd stumbled into her barn. He was the reason all of these people were here. The Soldier was responsible for the wars that had broken these men and killed Ramirez's husband and brought them to this desperate state, had brought him to this state. He didn't get a choice, he didn't deserve a choice. He had only one path before him, which was to make a clean escape and keep moving before he could harm these people any more than he already had.

* * *

I hope you enjoyed! Please R&R, send carrier pigeons, or some signals! Regardless! Thanks for reading! This chapter was a bear, but necessary to get us where we're going!

Next time buckle up for more Ramirez pain and a little more of her back story.


	7. Soldier Keep On Marching Home

Author's Note: Marvel owns what it owns, and I own what I own, let's keep it that way shall we? Don't Sue me!

TW: mention of suicide, mention of death, suicidal ideation, disordered eating,

This is, I would argue, the heaviest darkest chapter of the entire fic thus far, please proceed with caution.

Recommended Listening: "Soldier" by Fleurie; "The War Was in Color" by Carbon Leaf; and "One" by Metallica.

* * *

Something was wrong with Matt. Maggie had watched the interaction between him and James, and when James had come into the barn, Matt had seemed to be okay. One minute he'd been on the roof working like usual, then the next he'd disappeared. She hadn't noted the exact time or what the circumstances of his departure from the roof had been. She'd been more than a little occupied with James, Steph, and Molly.

It had been a rough few years for James and his family, so when he'd pulled into the drive unannounced, she'd been more than a little concerned. Thankfully it hadn't been anything pressing. They'd pulled Molly from school for a mental health day, and had gone for a drive. When they'd ended up in the area their cellphones had lost signal, and so they'd stopped by unannounced. All of that was fine. In fact, she encouraged clients and volunteers to stop by. There were always things that they could do to help out if they wanted, and the horses could always use more face time with people.

The problem at the moment was Scary Matt. Maggie knew she shouldn't call him that, but he was scary. Only, over the past few days, they'd been getting better. He'd started calling her Ramirez rather than ma'am or nothing at all. They'd even had what could be classified as a conversation in the barn. Progress was being made.

_Only he's not your client, and you're playing with fire, you know he's dangerous._

She knew that. On a basic fundamental level she knew the man was dangerous, but underneath it all, there was something save-able. Why else would he volunteer to fix her roof, or stop Roberts from assaulting her? She'd also been drawing him out of his shell; he hadn't outright rejected the idea of attending the cookout. That was certainly something!

_You can't save them all. You can't even save the ranch._

It was an ugly voice in the back of her head, but it wasn't exactly wrong. But maybe this was the start of something good? What if Scary Matt fixing the roof was the break she needed to get everything back on course? What if he has some wealthy relatives who would be grateful she'd found and nursed their brother/son/husband/father/nephew combination back to health and restored him to them? It was unlikely and stupid, but that would be one hell of a thing, wouldn't it?

To be honest, he probably wasn't lying about not having anyone to contact. It wasn't like she had an overabundant emergency contact list. No next of kin to speak of. She wasn't even sure Wilson would pick up the phone if she were in trouble, or if he'd just let it go to voicemail.

Maggie shook her head. It was just her and Matt, and she'd just have to make due. She snorted. Of all the fake names, he'd chosen Matt. It took him a second to answer when she called him that, though to his credit it was the name he'd supplied to Suzanne and she'd probably caught the poor guy off guard.

_Speaking of catching off guard._ Maggie paused outside the barn. She needed to see what had happened to the best pro bono carpenter to ever stumble into her barn. Maggie slowly entered the barn she peering in headfirst. She glanced around. She didn't see or hear anything, so she proceeded with caution toward stall ten.

_You should call back up Mags. This is dangerous._

She stopped just outside the stall peering in she found Matt huddled on the ground, much as she had when she'd found him that first morning. But he was muttering in a language she couldn't quite make out.

_Shit._ She sunk down outside the stall. He was going through something, though without pre-screening diagnostics, discussion, corroborating diagnoses and the like she couldn't know precisely what was going on, which could be dangerous for both of them.

_Talk to him, Mags, let him know he's not alone. _

Maggie sighed, taking a deep breath. What was she going to say? What could she say? She didn't know him; he wasn't one of her clients. This could end very badly if she didn't proceed with caution but _would_ end very badly if she didn't do anything at all.

"Hey, Matt." She faltered. "It's me, Maggie Ramirez." She began slowly. "I know you're going through something, I don't know what exactly, but I want you to know you're not alone. I'm here with you, and I'm not going anywhere. Focus on my voice and put your feet on the barn floor." She paused as she heard him adjust, his heavy boots setting firmly on the floor of the barn. "Do you smell it? The hay? It's slightly damp because of the leaks in the roof, and it smells like animals because of the horses." Maggie continued. "The horses would be the first ones to let us know if there was any danger because they're prey animals. I'm not going to let anything happen to you while you're here. I'm going to keep you safe. You've helped me out quite a bit since you've shown up, first with Roberts and now with the roof. I appreciate it. We all appreciate it." She chewed her lip. "You see what's what this place is. It's a haven, a little quiet, safe place away from all the bad shit out there, reminding you that you're not alone. You're not alone. Okay?"

Maggie continued talking until she heard his muttering subside and his breathing relax. The barn fell silent. She exhaled slowly, rising to her feet. "I'll be around in a little while to check on you. I have some things to take care of."

She walked out into the fresh air and toward the pasture gate, leaving the barn and barn dweller behind. _All in a day's work. _She leaned against the pasture fence. _I may not be able to save the world, but I can take care of my people. _It was a small sort of comfort. She couldn't do much well in this world, but she could take care of her people. Maggie paused at the thought and then shook her head, chuckling to herself, "Congrats Matt, like it or not, you're my people now."

He lay there in the straw, too exhausted to move. Her voice had pulled him out of it. He wasn't entirely sure how, but her voice had cut through the noise of his mind and pulled him out.

Was this how she was with everyone? Was this why they protected her so ferociously?

He lifted himself into a sitting position, wincing as his head ached, the mechanisms in the prosthesis whirling and grinding as he moved. He felt fragile, brittle almost as if everything he'd been piecing together was made of glass, and now someone had just tossed a brick through the window and shattered the whole thing. Was it a Hydra failsafe? Was it one of their tricks to incapacitate him? No. It was too random. It wasn't something that they could effectively weaponize. This was his brain short-circuiting. This was self-sabotage. It wasn't something he could afford

The memories flooded forth, but this time he was ready for them. James, the convoy, the explosion, the panic and screaming, and blood, that was him. He'd done that. It all felt like a bad dream. Only it wasn't a dream. It was much, much worse than that.

He exhaled, blinking slowly, head feeling fuzzy as he tried to remember how he'd gotten from the roof to the stall, and then what exactly it was that Ramirez had told him. There was a blank spot, a hole, or rather another hole in the fragile patchwork of his mind. Then, of course, there was a question of what he _knew_ versus what he _remembered. _The Smithsonian had been tremendously useful in helping with the former while doing nothing but muddy the latter. James Barnes had been born in 1917 to George and Winfred Barnes and died in 1945. James Barnes had three sisters, Abigail, Rachel, and Rebecca Barnes, one of whom was still alive. James Barnes had been a straight 'A' student and a gifted athlete. James Barnes was the best friend of Steve Rogers since childhood. He knew that, from the museum exhibits. He'd spent hours reading through the descriptions on the artifacts and listening to the museum's audio and video recordings on the adventures of Captain America and his Howling Commandoes.

He knew all of that, but he didn't _remember_ any of it. He _knew_ Steven Rogers. He knew Steve, small, sickly, frail, with a fighting unrelenting desire to do the right thing. He knew Steve and something inside of him had known enough to recognize that he had to protect him. He _knew_ Steven Rogers in the same way that he _knew_ Ramirez had been talking to him just a moment ago. His brain was just fuzzy enough that when he tried to focus on the specifics, it gave him a headache. It was more like opening and closing your eyes fast. You got the shape of the thing but not much more, a word, a name, a taste, something on the tip of your tongue just beyond enunciation.

He leaned back in the hay, squeezing his eyes shut. He needed a way to sort through all of it, what he knew, what he didn't know, what he remembered, what he wanted to forget. He couldn't trust his brain to organize and process anything more complicated than immediate stimuli and input. He couldn't afford to slip into an old memory while he was on the run, not when he ran the risk of becoming incapacitated because of it. It was his responsibility to keep out of Hydra's hands. He'd already hurt too many people. He wouldn't hurt anyone else, not if he could help it.

"Hey." Ramirez's voice startled him from his light doze, and he jerked into upright positing wincing as he did. "Sorry." She lowered her voice even more. "How are you feeling?"

He surveyed her expression, which was creased with concern, and suddenly he felt shame rise in his chest. "Fine. Thanks." He mumbled, lowering his gaze.

"I've brought you something to eat. Something light." She explained, slowly lowering a plastic bag onto the floor of the stall. "Let me know if I can get you anything."

"Scrap paper." It slipped out before he even registered he was saying it. He winced again.

"Yeah, I can do that. Do you have a writing implement?"

"It's..." He faltered. "It's nothing. You don't have to worry about it."

Ramirez nodded, and for a moment, it looked like she was going to push the issue before she responded with, "Try to get some rest."

She turned away and continued with the evening chores without another word. He snagged the bag and dragged it to him. There was a container of fruit salad, peanuts, some jerky, and some water, and he ate hungrily before collapsing back in the straw.

He didn't dream, for which he was thankful. He wasn't even sure if he slept, as he drifted in and out of consciousness, the barn ceiling blurring in and out of focus. Too exhausted to do anything productive but too on edge to ease into sleep.

"Hey, Matt?"

He jerked into an upright position and found that one again, Ramirez was standing at the stall door. Why hadn't he heard her come in? "Ma'am?" He managed weakly.

"Mike and Bill are due any minute." She explained gently, mercifully saying nothing about the fact that he'd just called her ma'am.

"What time is it?"

"9:30."

"Shit." He mumbled, blinking as he staggered to his feet.

"You're all right. Figured you wouldn't appreciate them startling you." She stepped out of the way as he started for the stall door.

"I need to take care of your roof." He said.

"Go wash up first. I made breakfast burritos." Ramirez commented, before walking back outside.

He went to the outbuilding and pulled off his gloves after locking the door. Washing his face, brushing his teeth, and pulling his hair back before shoving the baseball cap back on, he glanced up in the mirror. It was still jarring, seeing his reflection. Sharing faces with James Barnes. But that didn't make him "Bucky." How could he be? How could he be anything more than what Hydra had made him? _Choice. Every choice, every action matters. Our past doesn't define us, but our choices now and today help shape our tomorrow. _That's what Ramirez had told James in the barn only a few days ago. _But it can't apply to me. It shouldn't._ How could it, after all that he'd done? He was the reason that any of them were here. He'd shaped the century. That's what Pierce had said.

The sound of Mike and Davidson's voice pulled him back and rooted him to the present. _Finish the roof, move on, and then you can worry about everything else._

He pulled back on his gloves and returned out into the morning air.

"Oh. Look who's decided to join us from up on high." Davidson commented as he approached the picnic bench where Davidson, Mike, and Ramirez were sitting, drinking coffee, a pile of burritos wrapped in foil in the center of the table.

"Ignore him. He's just being grumpy," Ramirez interjected.

"Happens when you get old." Davidson shot back amiably. "So, you plan to join us on Friday, Matt?"

All eyes turned to him in breathless expectation. Davidson was trying to get a rise out of him, trying to make him commit one way or another. It was a lose-lose scenario, regardless of what he said. "If I'm finished with the roof." He answered.

"Jesus, Ramirez. Turn this poor kid into Cinderella over here? Can't go to the cookout if he doesn't finish his chores?" Davidson asked, turning to Ramirez.

"I dunno? Sounds like a good idea to me when it comes to you fellows. I _may _have to revoke burrito privileges if you don't get on with what you're _supposed _to be doing." She drawled.

"Damn. Tough break, Bill." Mike chuckled. "Sit down and join us, Matt. Ramirez's roof can wait a little longer." Mike waved him over.

He sat down on the bench, hands shoved in his pockets, watching the back and forth between Davidson and Ramirez.

"Speaking of revoking privileges, Wilson going to grace us with his presence Friday?" Mike interjected as there was a pause in the banter.

The mood at the picnic table got decidedly cooler as Ramirez's expression hardened. "I wouldn't _know _what Sam's up to. He doesn't exactly forward me his social calendar."

"All right, all right." Mike put up his hands. "Thought I'd ask since he's an April birthday and all that."

His brain was fuzzy and working slowly, but the name was familiar like he'd seen it somewhere before recently. _Wilson...Wilson...now why did that name sound familiar? And how is it connected to her?_

"So when's your first appointment?" Davidson asked, interrupting his train of thought and bringing him back into the present.

"Oh." Ramirez looked down. Checking her phone, she frowned. "Huh?"

"What's going on?" Davidson questioned.

"Tim. He's late. That's really weird. He's normally pretty punctual," She answered her brows furrowed.

"You gonna call?" Davidson inquired.

"I'll give him another ten before I do anything." She shrugged, flashing a small smile. He could tell it was more to reassure Davidson than anything else.

"I'm sure it's okay," Davison said, patting her shoulder.

He glanced between Ramirez and Mike as they all went back to their coffee, the tension palpable. Then out of the silence, Ramirez's phone started to buzz on the table. Snatching up the phone, she rose and walked a few feet away before answering. "Last Chance Ranch, Maggie speaking." She answered in a chirpy, nearly singsong voice.

The person on the other end of the line started speaking, and her easy smile seeped from her face and set in a hard grimace. "Yes, this is she," Ramirez answered, glancing up at them. "Yeah, just a minute." She said as she turned and started toward the barn office.

"Let's go to work." Davidson told Mike shortly, "Matt, don't you have a roof to be looking after?" Davidson asked, making the universal shooing motion.

He nodded, grabbing a burrito, walked around the corner to the ladder on the roof. Climbing up to the top, he focused intently on what was happening on the ground. Something was wrong, but what exactly it was he couldn't say.

"Hey, Bill. Can you come in here a minute?" Ramirez's voice pierced the silence. It was pinched and brittle with a slight waver to it.

Davidson entered the office, closing the door after him. A few minutes later they both exited. Ramirez went up toward the house without a word, and Davidson went to Mike, talking in low tones. He shook his head and returned his focus to his work. _It's none of your business, focus on the roof so you can finish it and move on._

"Hey, Matt?"

He looked up to see Ramirez standing at the foot of the ladder. She'd changed from her regular jeans, plaid flannel, and boots to black slacks, a white button-down, and flats, a blazer folded over her arm. She had a grocery bag in hand. "Lunch," She said flatly, "Bill and I have to go to the hospital. I don't know when I'll be back. Suzanne should be by sometime around five to help Mike bring everyone in. I'll leave the bag on the picnic table. Mike will know it's yours." She said quickly, and without waiting for a response, she turned and walked back toward the picnic bench.

There was some discussion between Mike, Davidson, and Ramirez, and then the sound of a vehicle starting and driving away. An eerie silence descended over the ranch. Someone had turned off the radio that usually blared out music throughout the day, leaving only the sound of his tools and Mike, who worked down in the barn. He would occasionally answer phone calls, but always in a low, hushed tone, even the horses seemed quieter. They worked in this continued silence until Suzanne, and a couple of people he didn't know arrived and brought in the horses for the evening.

Suzanne and her assistants departed as quickly as they'd come, leaving him and mike alone again. He climbed down the ladder as Mike finished up the evening feeding regimen, feeling compelled if not outright obligated to say something to the man before he left for the evening.

"Sleeping in the barn, huh," Mike commented He tensed uncertain of what he should do or say. It wasn't an accusation, so much as just a statement of fact. "Been there done that," Mike said, pulling a card from his wallet extended it to him. "It's a halfway house, my cell number is on the back if you need anything or want to get off that barn floor."

He took the card wordlessly, but his expression must've been bewildered because Mike continued, "We've all been through the shit," Mike paused, glancing around. "Davidson and I were the first, or some of the first, but that was back when Ramirez, Underdahl, and Wilson were the dynamic trio running this place together."

There was a sadness in the man's voice, something nearly nostalgic in his tone. "What happened?" He couldn't help but ask.

Mike chuckled humorlessly. "What happens to all of us? Life." He shook his head but offered no further explanation.

It had been an invasive question at best, rude at the very worst. He nodded.

"Well. Anyway. I gotta get going. Seriously though, call if you need anything or wanna get off that barn floor, it's softer and warmer than the ground, but not by much."

He nodded, watching as the man walked out to his truck and drove away.

Then he turned to the picnic bench where Ramirez had left the grocery bag. Sitting, he opened the bag and found two sandwiches, a bag of chips, two apples, a Gatorade, and a bottle of water. Tucked at the very bottom of the bag were a plain black hardback journal and a couple of rollerball pens. Stuck to the packaging of the journal was a sticky note, which read: _'Easier to write things out than keep them all in your head. Thanks again for your help with the roof. ~Maggie.' _

He found he was struck by the simple kindness of the action. Had she prepped this in advance, or had she thought to make this in the middle of everything going on?

He glanced around. There was tangible anxiety in the air. It had originated with the phone call and had been growing in intensity since her departure with Davidson mid-morning. Davidson and Mike were concerned, and against his better judgment, he found that he was concerned for her, too. Why precisely he couldn't quite enunciate, but he felt uneasy. Something was terribly wrong. Not just today with the phone call, but the pile of envelopes, the rotting barn roof, the dead husband, the exhaustion masked behind her smiles and easy laughs, her seemingly endless selflessness. Something was wrong, and either no one else could see it, or no one wanted to admit to the state of things. There was a light that Magdalen Ramirez brought to her community, to her people, but at what cost?

Maggie dropped Bill off at home around seven and took the long way back to the ranch. The windows rolled down, the radio off, she did her best to focus on the road and getting home safely rather than the events of the day.

Her friend and client, Tim, was dead. As his emergency contact she had been called in to identify the body. It wasn't the first time she'd had to do this, and unfortunately wouldn't be the last. She'd had to identify Riley's body whenever it had returned stateside. She'd been prepared for that, though. She'd had several days to prepare emotionally, psychologically, with Tim it had been so sudden.

She exhaled a shaky breath, blinking profusely as the headlights from oncoming traffic blurred.

_I should've seen the signs. I should've known this was coming. Should've been able to do something. _

Her brain had been running a mile a minute since the phone call this morning. Fortunately, Bill had been there to talk to her and keep her grounded during the whole process. Now, in the silence of the truck cab, her thoughts were piling up on one another, overflowing like a backed-up sink.

_He was doing so much better than when we first started our sessions. Yeah? But then Alice was killed._

Tim had called her when he'd gotten the news. He'd checked himself into a clinic. He'd been afraid he was going to hurt himself. She'd gone and visited him in the hospital, gone with him to the funeral home, and then attended the funeral along with Bill and Mike, and a few of the others from the ranch.

_But he'd been healing. He'd been grieving and processing his emotions._

Yeah, but then he'd lost his job, and his vehicle was under threat of repossession, and he couldn't get steady benefits. His extended family all lived so far away, and he'd never been close to them, and both his parents were dead and gone with no siblings to speak of. He hadn't had much of a support network.

_I should've seen it coming. I should've reached out to him...been more involved. _

Maggie sniffled, wiping her face with her sleeve.

_You failed him. You could've prevented this. You were supposed to protect your people. That's what you're good at. Why didn't you stop this from happening?_

She blinked back tears, her bottom lip trembling. _But I tried. _She tried to reason with herself.

_You weren't enough. You're never enough._

Maggie knew this was the exhaustion talking. It was the emotional and physical weight she'd been carrying around for almost the last three years on her own, and it was crushing her.

_I just need to catch a break. I just need to catch my breath._

When? When would it come? It hadn't yet, and it was only going to get worse in the immediate future. She'd spent most of the afternoon running calculations, talking with her bank, talking with the credit card companies, talking with the VA, with the insurance company, talking with anyone and everyone she could think of trying to find a way to pay for her friend's funeral without emptying her already meager savings. In the end, it hadn't mattered. She hadn't had a choice. She hadn't seen an alternative. She needed to bury her friend. She needed to give him a proper funeral. That was her responsibility. She'd failed him in life; she couldn't fail him in death too.

_Fundraise._

That's what Bill had told her. It was a good idea, it really was, but she didn't have the time or the energy or the resources to organize an effective fundraiser. She couldn't ask her volunteers or clients. They all had their own debts and financial problems. Everyone she knew was in very nearly the same boat.

_It wasn't supposed to be this way. How had it gotten this bad? _

She was never supposed to be doing this alone. It was going to be the three of them, The Dream Team, working together, helping the veteran community, giving back.

Maggie pulled into the driveway up by the house and killed the engine. Suzanne had called her and confirmed that the horses had been brought in. Then Mike had texted her to let her know the horses had been bedded down and fed for the evening. She was free to go inside and try to unwind from this horrifying shit show. Until tomorrow came, and it would come, and she would be forced to reckon with her decisions, and with the aftermath of Tim's death in the Last Chance Ranch community.

She slumped against the steering wheel, closing her eyes as the world started to blur and spin.

_You're not allowed to cry. You have too much shit to take care of. You have to be the responsible adult in this scenario. You have to keep going for your people. They're counting on you. You have to continue to function for them._

She was vividly aware of the fact that her self-talk wasn't helping the situation, but at this point, she didn't have the strength to fight it anymore. She didn't have strength enough to do anything that might remotely resemble being a "responsible adult." When had she last eaten? When had she last washed her hair or done laundry? She couldn't say. Did it matter? It really didn't.

Leaning against the steering column, Maggie let her hand wander to the silver chain, fingers fumbling with the larger of the two wedding bands she could feel the inscription on the inside. _From now, _it read, and she knew the smaller band would have _until the end of time_ engraved inside the gold band.

_You have to get up you can_' _t give up now. You have to get up. You can't quit. _

Eventually summoning the energy to move, she walked inside, not bothering to lock the door behind her, and started stripping off her layers. Dropping her blazer, she pulled off her white button-down and then the tank top she wore under, before kicking off her flats, and tugging off her slacks. Leaving the clothes where they fell, Maggie staggered to the kitchen, ignoring how her feet stuck to the floor slightly, not sure if the floor was just sticky or if it was just her sweaty feet.

She sighed, opening the fridge and then the freezer, before opening the fridge again. She rubbed her face. Opening the freezer again, she pulled out an unopened pint of Ben and Jerry's ice cream. Setting it on the counter, she rummaged through the pile of dirty dishes that had accumulated trying to find the cleanest spoon. Satisfied she'd scored the best of the bunch, she shoved the spoon in her mouth, grabbed the bottle of red wine from the kitchen island with one hand, and collected the pint of ice cream with the other before walking out to the living room.

The TV was already on, she'd forgotten to turn it off when she'd gone down to the barn for the day, and a trashy novella rerun was on. She sunk on to the single lumpy sofa in the large room, setting the wine and ice cream down on the beat-up antique-ish coffee table, still littered with the empty beer cans and wine bottles, coffee cups, other half-eaten cartons of ice cream, and abandoned bags of chips long gone stale.

"Just another day in paradise, huh?" She commented, grabbing the bottle of wine cracked the seal and twisted the top off. She'd long given up on buying wine with a cork and instead was content with the screw top. Taking a long draw from the bottle, she set it down wincing. Pulling on the hoodie she'd left draped over the back of the couch, she rose and crossed the room to the corkboard wall, or rather A collection of cork boards. It was her daily to-do lists and reminders, people to call, groceries to buy. A whole corkboard was dedicated to the house renovation schedule now three years behind, with a "Coming Home" count down spread in the top right-hand corner likewise abandoned. However, the largest and brightest of these corkboards was covered with photos and drawings, and other things that clients had given her. Molly's drawing, the most recent addition, was tacked on top of the assortment.

Maggie reached out, her fingers brushing each of the stick figures Molly had drawn before she pushed aside the drawing to find what she was looking for. Removing the thumbtack, she took the last snapshot she had of Tim and Alice in hand.

It was a photo that Maggie had taken at one of the cookouts. They'd both looked so happy, both smiling and laughing at a joke Bill was telling. A candid if there was ever a candid photo. Alice's short red hair was falling in her face, her eyes and nose crinkled in the telltale sign of laughter, while Tim watched Alice. There was this look of fondness and _love_ on Tim's face. It was palpable even now that both of them were gone. Wiping her eyes with a thumb, she took the snapshot and wandered to the ladder shelf on the other side of the TV stand.

It wasn't a proper Ofrenda, but she'd never had a chance to build a real one like the one her Abuela and grandpa had in their old house. Her damn uncle had taken it, and she wasn't about to fight him about it, even if he was an utter bastard. There was her maternal grandparent's wedding photo, her brother's graduation photo, a photo of her mother from one of her last birthdays, a photo of Riley's parents and grandparents, and a photo of her, Riley and Sam at the 1940s themed military ball. There were a number of others there as well, clients...or rather former clients. Andrew, he'd died from cancer three years ago, Vietnam Veteran, navy. Michael, killed two years ago in a confrontation with the cops while he was having a PTSD fueled hallucination, two-tour Army veteran. Jason, painkiller overdose a year and a half ago, a three-tour Marine Corps veteran, who'd also done five years for possession and aggravated assault. Now there was Tim and Alice's photo nestled amongst them. All of them either had no family or were estranged from whatever family they had left. It was up to her to remember them, to put them on her Ofrenda. She couldn't let them be forgotten in death, not when she had failed them so utterly and completely in life.

Maggie absently touched the face of her grandmother's Virgin of Guadalupe statue, her finger's pausing a moment on her grandfather's rosary before they trailed down to trace Riley's name, stamped in the metal dog tag. Maggie exhaled slowly, aware that her hands were shaking. Tears that had been welling in her eyes had started to slip down her face.

"Damn it." She muttered, wiping at her face with the hoodie sleeve. Turning off the TV, she fished her phone from the blazer she'd discarded on the floor and headphones from the array of garbage on the coffee table and settled down on the couch as she scrolled through her contacts. With her free hand she grabbed the bottle of wine, taking another swig. She paused, her thumb hovering over the contact labeled "*THAT* bastard," her resolve wavering. _Would he want to talk to me?_ She wondered. _No. Probably not. _Maggie shook her head.

Exiting her contacts, she opened up her playlists, selecting the one titled "Letters Home from the Dream Team."

Putting her headphones in, Maggie took another drink from the bottle of wine and hit play. There were a few seconds of static before Riley's voice flooded over her.

_'Hey, Mags!' _Riley began.

_'Heeeyyyyy Maaaggggs,' _Sam chorused somewhere in the background, making kissy noises.

_'Really, Dude? Shut the fuck up! Jeezus Christ!' _Riley shot back. Maggie could practically hear him roll his eyes. _'Sorry about that, I hope you're doing alright. I know you wanted us to try to write or call more while we're over here. I figured this would split the difference.'_

_"_Plus, it solves the issue of you being unable to read my handwriting." Maggie quoted along, smiling even as the tears streamed down her face. She opened the pint of ice cream and ate a large spoonful before taking another long draw from the bottle.

_'You'll be pleased to know that even over 6,000 miles away from New York, Wilson is still the biggest pain in the ass this side of the Mississippi. I'm afraid I can't tell you much about what we're doing over here, or even where here is. How is the house? And the horses? Last time we talked, you were waiting for Suzanne to get back to you about Mr. McSmush." _She could hear Sam snort in the background. _"Dude, shut up it's a great name!"_

_'Yeah? In what alternate universe Underdahl? Mags, you're crazy. Not only did you marry him, but now you're letting him name things? I can't wait to hear the names he picks out for your future kids.' _Sam interjected.

_'Anyway. I was thinking about the downstairs renovation. Are you still thinking about the textured wallpaper on the powder room ceiling? I mean it sounds like a cool idea, but a pain in the ass to install. Have you gotten the electrical issues sorted out in the kitchen yet? I don't feel comfortable with you YouTubing how to do it yourself. You really should hire someone.' _Riley paused, the sound of sirens blaring in the background_. 'We gotta go. Love you, Mags baby, I'll talk to you soon. I love you so much. Be safe.'_

_'Love you, Mags!' _Sam managed before Riley shut off the recorder.

Maggie chuckled, eating another large spoonful of ice cream. The next letter started automatically, and she let Riley and Sam's ramblings wash over her.

She laughed and mouthed along as Sam and Riley bickered amicably, while they talked through suggestions for repairs to the house and the property, more name for the horses, and imagined their future together. The three of them. The dream team, together, making good, kicking ass. Inseparable.

It was a moment frozen in time when they'd been a happy family. Sure they'd been a bit unconventional, and at times totally dysfunctional, but they had been happy.

By the end of the fifth letter, Maggie had demolished the bottle of wine and what remained of the ice cream had been left to melt. She'd hoped the wine would make her numb or, at the very least relaxed enough to sleep. Instead, she lay on the couch, listening to the sound of Riley's voice too exhausted to work up a good sob.

'We'll_ be home soon, Mags baby. I can't wait to see you. I gotta go! Be safe! Love you!' _Riley's last audio letter concluded, and Maggie yanked out the headphones letting the phone slip off the couch, dragging the headphone with them.

The house fell silent. It was this time of night that she felt the most dread, and felt the echoes of her old life the most, the life she'd wanted, the life she'd planned together with Riley and Sam. Tears pooled in the corner of her eyes as she lay on the couch, slipping down her cheeks, soaking into the filthy couch cushions under her.

It was at this time of night that she always remembered the day her world had come crashing down around her. The spotless silver sedan that had pulled slowly up the gravel road, their freshly pressed, crisp uniforms, their sober, grave expressions, the feeling of falling, the repeated mantra of _I'm going to wake up. _Only she hadn't woken up. And now two and half years later, Maggie felt she was in one continuous waking nightmare.

After the immediate shock, she'd then done everything she could to get ahold of Sam, which had been a fiasco. They hadn't seen one another until the day before the funeral. Then only a few times in the two and a half years since. They sent each other birthday and holiday cards, but Sam hadn't been back to the ranch since before their last deployment. Everything about the place reminded Sam of what he'd lost. A little too much of what they had lost. A life together with Riley, gone forever.

The last she'd seen of Sam was on the news, all wrapped up in the Captain America, SHIELD/ Hydra fiasco down in Washington, D.C. Maggie had thought about calling, but what would be the point? What could she possibly have to say that he would want to hear? He'd never dated her. They weren't a couple. They'd been Riley's partners. Now that Riley was gone, she really had no place in his life, and he could choose to live that life any way he wanted. If that meant cowboying around with Captain America, then that was really his prerogative. She had her life, and he had his. That's all there was to it.

_We were supposed to be a team. It wasn't supposed to turn out like this. It's not fair. _

That's what it always came back to. It wasn't fair. But none of this fair. Would she be running a veterans' equine therapy ranch if things were fair? Would she be about to lose the ranch if things were fair? Would she be burying one of her friends and clients at the ripe old age of thirty-seven if things were fair? It wasn't fair. She knew that. _But at least I can try to help my people. _That had been the balm to soothe the injustice of the entire situation, but soon she might not even be able to do that.

_I want my boys._

That's all she could think as she lay prone on the couch, clutching the empty wine bottle to her, hair in her face, staring at the wall, too tired to move, too wired to sleep, and too indifferent to care.

_Just make it to tomorrow. _She repeated over and over.

If this was as bad as it was going to get then, there was nowhere to go but up. But even as she lay there, Maggie knew there was no reprieve in the immediate future. There was still a ways to go before reaching rock bottom, and then again she'd brought a shovel for when she arrived.

* * *

Okay! So, I know that was a tough chapter (It made my partner cry), but now we officially know who Mags is! When is Bucky going to figure it out? Next chapter, we get Sam!

Thank you all for reading! I hope you enjoyed it! Please R&R! Let me know what you think. I enjoy reading feedback. It helps feed the plot bunnies!


	8. Cowgirl Don't Cry

Author's Note: Marvel owns what it owns, and I own what I own, let's keep it that way shall we? Don't Sue me!

Recommended Listening: Cowgirls Don't Cry by Brooks & Dunn; I Miss you by Blink 182; Me Myself & I by Eazy x Bebe Rexha; Stressed Out by Twenty One Pilots.

* * *

Cowgirl Don't Cry

Maggie awoke to the sound of her phone buzzing on the ground. She cracked opened her eyes, crusted from tears and aching, and launched herself onto the floor scrabbling for the phone before the caller hung up. Half-blind, she answered. "Last Chance Ranch, this is Magdalene Ramirez speaking." She managed to croak out.

She was greeted with silence, but before she could hang up, she heard the subtle intake of breath. "Hey Mags."

Her heart stopped, and she sat down on the couch. "Sam?"

There was another silence. "Yeah." He said slowly. "Been a while, how you doin'?"

Maggie sighed, squeezing her eyes shut, trying to ease the pounding at her temples. "Bill or Suzanne?"

"Mags."

"I have a hangover and three clients today, just answer the question Samuel Thomas Wilson." She snapped, though she winced as she did a sharp pain shooting through her skull.

"Bill last night, Suzanne this morning," Sam answered flatly.

"Jesus." She fell back against the couch cushions, shielding her eyes with the arm that wasn't holding up the phone. "What time is it now?"

"8:00."

"Fuuckkk." She moaned.

"Don't worry. Suzanne said she'd take care of your morning feed and set up for your first appointment."

"Appreciate it," Maggie said blandly, as she rose, muscles aching, head pounding in complaint. "So to what do I owe this call? As you said...been a while."

"Well. All things being what they are, figured I should check up on you."

"Yeah, thanks for that." She would've rolled her eyes, but her head hurt, so she settled on the sarcastic tone.

"I can not, next time, if you'd like."

"Well. You can do whatever you want. It's not like _we_ ever dated. You know, you were just going to live with me and my husband, your boyfriend, on a fucking farm we were supposed to run together." She snapped out as she scooped up a pair of pants off the floor and started to tug them on. "But now you don't even call to tell me that you're working with Captain America taking down science Nazis. Or, oh, _I'm sorry._ Was I just supposed to be okay with that?"

There was a long silent pause, and Maggie thought for an instant that he'd hung up, and in Wilson's defense, she would've deserved it. "It was a spur of a moment thing." Sam hesitated as he chose his next words. "Though it is nice to hear that you still care, Mags."

Maggie winced, sinking down on to a sheet-covered armchair, rubbing her forehead. "Sam..." She faltered. The way he'd said it had stung a bit, and now she was blinking back tears. "Of course I care." Maggie exhaled a shaking breath. "I miss you...I miss...us. All of us...together." She bit her lip to try and stop it from trembling.

"I miss you too...miss us...the whole thing. It's hard not to miss it if I'm honest." He said slowly. "How's everything up there at the old place?"

She glanced around, the walls half bare, with exposed wires and sheetrock and framing. The kitchen a wreck, dirty laundry weeks old scattered on the floor. "I...uhhh...the same. You know. routine, stability, familiar surroundings." She said quickly. There was no way in hell she could tell Sam how bad it was, how bad everything had gotten. She couldn't tell him that she was weeks possibly days away from bankruptcy. She couldn't tell him that she was about to lose it all. He obviously had bigger shit to deal with than his former partner's widow.

"Sounds nice." He answered after a moment.

"You should come up and visit," Maggie quipped. She'd asked him multiple times since Riley's death and since he'd left the Air Force to come and visit, to no avail. It was more habit now than anything else. Only now, now she wouldn't want him to come and see her wallowing. Have him see the space, frozen, waiting for him and Riley to come back, waiting for a life that was frankly never going to happen. "I mean, if you can, I understand if you're super busy running around with Captain America and the Super Friends." She added quickly with a little laugh, doing her best to lighten the mood.

"The Avengers? Nah. I'm not that crazy. Doing a favor for Cap'."

"Oh? Like what? Visiting Children's hospitals and charities dressed as The Falcon?" She asked, doing her best to sound pleasant and politely intrigued while pulling off her hoodie and slipping on a tank top and a relatively clean button-down.

"Not exactly." There was hesitance in Sam's voice that made her stop.

"Oh God. Do I want to know?"

"No. Probably not." Sam answered, "But you probably should know just in case..."

"Just in case what? Are supervillains going to come knocking on my front door Sammie?"

There was again a hesitant pause. "Sam?" She asked picking up one of the water bottles from the coffee table and unscrewing the cap taking a sip.

"We're tracking down the Winter Soldier."

She almost spewed her water from her nose. "What the fuck?" She coughed.

"Yeah. Long story."

"Yeah, I'll say. Jeezus Sam. We're talking about the murder cyborg that's been all over the news since you and Captain Nice Ass took down S.H.I.E.L.D., right?"

Sam barely contained a snort. "Yeah. Has some information that Steve needs." Sam explained.

"Oh?" Maggie had to hide a smile. The use of the good Captain's first name was intriguing, but she wasn't about to push Sam on it. Sam wasn't the kind to kiss and tell, least of all if it was a fine piece of red white and blue ass like that. Besides, he'd called her. Obviously, there was something else happening, he needed something. "And what do you and _Steve_ need from me? At least I assume that's what the call is about."

"Okay, I'd like the record to show I did call you because I'm concerned," Sam said quickly.

"Butttt? I mean, that's what's coming next, right? What do you need, Sam?"

Sam paused with a heavy sigh before continuing, "Our guy went off the grid in NYC, that's the last place we've been able to track him to. You haven't seen or heard anything weird, have you?"

Maggie had to keep from snorting. "Like Nazi murder cyborgs with metal arms?" She asked incredulously. "No. Can't say I have. Should I be keeping my eye out all the way up here in bum-fuck-middle of nowhere New York State?"

"Just keeping all the options open. He's defected, so Hydra's not going to be very nice about getting him back."

"I'll keep an eye out and let you know if I see anyone with a metal arm and Hydra buddies coming to break down my door." She rolled her eyes.

"I'm being serious, Mags."

"I know. Which is what's ridiculous about this situation. I _seriously_ doubt your guy would come and hide out in rural middle of nowhere on an equine therapy ranch. But that being said, you and the good Captain are more than welcome to come and check if you're in the area." Maggie paused. "We're having a cookout tomorrow. For the April birthdays." She said weakly.

"Steve and I are in NYC, I'll see what we can do. No promises though." That's what he said, that's what he always said.

"Yeah. That sounds like a good plan." Maggie sighed.

"I was sorry to hear about Tim. I heard he was having a hard time since Alice passed away." Sam said quietly.

"Yeah." Maggie swallowed hard. "Sam?" She faltered. She wanted to ask, needed to ask, needed to know. Was she making a difference? Was anything she was doing actually helping? Or was she just as ineffectual at helping these people as she was at her housekeeping and ranch management? Sam would tell her. Sam wouldn't blow smoke up her ass, he was never one to sugar coat anything. He was the realist after all, out of the three of them.

"Mags?" Sam called out.

"Yeah. Sorry. Kinda got sidetracked a moment. I need to get going. I have an appointment in half an hour and need to get myself presentable."

"Yeah, me too. I gotta run."

"Duty calls?"

"Yeah, something like that," Sam said.

"Be safe out there, Sammie."

"You too, Mags. Gotta go, love you, bye!" Sam hung up before she could say anything else.

Maggie sighed, putting down the phone, sunk back onto the couch. "The Winter Soldier? Here? On Last Chance Ranch?" She snorted, burying her face in her hands. "Yeah, right."

_Which is precisely why you didn't mention 'Scary Matt'? _The adult part of her brain asked.

_No, because it's just Scary Matt. Besides, even if he is the Winter Soldier, I seriously doubt he'd let the Falcon and Captain Blue Eyes Sexy Pants take him in. _The other part of her brain, the stupid and irresponsible part, reasoned.

Maggie stopped herself. There was no way 'Scary Matt' was the guy Sam and Cap' were looking for. This was her hungover sleep-deprived brain running away with itself.

She rose, walking into the kitchen, took the stale coffee from the day before, and took a long draw directly from the carafe. Wincing only slightly, she returned the pot to the machine, pulling a baseball cap and her sunglasses from the rake she'd hung up to hold keys on, and walked out the back door and down the hill to begin her day.

Walking down to the barn, she found Suzanne there waiting for her, coffee cup in hand. "You look like shit, kid." She said, handing Maggie the cup of coffee.

Maggie said nothing, taking the coffee and taking a couple small sips.

"There's a breakfast sandwich for you on your desk. I sent your volunteer out to check the back 40's fence for a breach."

"There's a breach in the fence?" Maggie asked before getting a good look at Suzanne's expression. "Oh." She exhaled slowly.

Suzanne paused, surveying her carefully. "You all right?"

"I'm fine," Maggie said shortly.

"You're not alone in this, you know." Suzanne began.

"Can we skip the lecture, please?" Maggie snapped.

Suzanne put her hands up as if in surrender. "Okay, okay. Just wanted to check-in, make sure you're hanging in there."

"I'm fine," Maggie repeated. "And why'd you and Bill have to call Sam? We all know that Wilson is the last person in the world who I'd want to talk to about this shit. If he was so interested in anything that had to do with _me_, he'd be here. I wouldn't have to find out from the TV that he's working with Captain Fucking America."

Suzanne mercifully said nothing. Maggie was being a child. She knew she was being a child, and if she was honest with herself a brat too. But everything hurt, and she wanted to cry and spend the whole day in bed watching telenovelas while someone stroked her hair and fed her carbs, preferably somehow smothered in chocolate. She certainly didn't want to be mucking out stalls or dealing with Scary Matt, or talking to people, even people she liked.

"Bill told me when the funeral is going to be. Have you made an announcement to the team?" Suzanne asked.

"I was going to do that in a little while. Have some office and bookkeeping things to take care of after this first appointment." She said shortly.

"All right. Just let us know what you need, seriously Maggie. You're not alone in this." Suzanne paused as a vehicle drove up. "I think you're 9:00am is here. I'll let you get to it." She pat Maggie on the shoulder before walking out to her vehicle.

Maggie sighed, downing the rest of the burnt convenient store coffee. Today was going to be hard, but she'd get through it. She didn't have a choice. She tossed the cup in the trash can and walked out to meet her client.

Fortunately, the appointment went smoothly, and with no other pressing matters until the afternoon, Maggie found herself in the office sifting through the backlog of paperwork trying to find her banking book. The breakfast sandwich sat there in her periphery, the object of her growing disdain and ire.

_I can feed myself, I don't need Suzanne and Bill and Sam babying me. How dare they fucking call Sam. Sam NEVER calls me unless I'm dying, or he thinks I'm dying. A fucking breakfast sandwich really? I can feed myself. I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself._

She snatched up the sandwich and charged from the office toward the large trash can. Moving so fast she nearly fell headlong into the six-foot wall of muscle and scary that was Scary Matt. "Shit." She swore, stumbling backward.

He stopped, surveying her, but said nothing.

"Hey. I have this for you. Sorry. Running a little behind today." Maggie rushed. She extended the sandwich to him, which he took slowly, a calculated and hesitant edge to his movements.

He nodded, stowing the sandwich away in a pocket of his jacket. "There wasn't a breach in the fence, but there were a few crossbars that were nearly rotted away and needed to be replaced." He said with nearly the same calculated hesitance that he'd just used when taking the sandwich from her. "I took care of it for you."

"Thank-" She cut herself off as a lump formed in her throat. Why the hell was she choked up about that? She'd just about chewed Suzanne's ass for bringing her coffee and breakfast, but now she was getting choked up over this? Well, considering the guy had been on death's door when he showed up and was now fixing shit without being asked, perhaps it was worth feeling a little sentiment over. She coughed to clear her throat before continuing. "Thank you for doing that. You know you didn't have to. You're not obligated. Particularly since you've been working on the roof so diligently."

Matt nodded again. "Thank you for the journal. You didn't have to do that." He said, avoiding direct eye contact while simultaneously working to give her a once over.

"Of course. I had a few laying around the house, figured you might find it useful." She replied crisply.

Did he know? Had anyone told him what was going on? Or was this once over something else entirely? She didn't know.

"I'll get back to the roof." He turned and walked out of the barn and out of her line of sight.

Maggie watched him go. _It doesn't matter, I can't focus on Scary Matt. _Maggie returned to the office, sinking down at the desk, she did her best to clear away the pile of papers that had accumulated on the keyboard and booted up the old computer. It took it a moment, but she opened the documents and spreadsheets she needed. She also opened the internet browser to her email. She needed to tell everyone. She needed to let everyone know what had happened. It would be easier than fielding a thousand questions and even more follow up on when the funeral and the wake was going to take place.

After everything eventually loaded, she typed out an email and sent it. Closing the page, she hesitated before typing in 'Winter Soldier, Washington, D.C.,' into the search bar. She watched as the page loaded. Shaky video footage and blurry photos popped. Maggie shook her head, closing the web browser. "This is stupid, this is your brain running away with you." She muttered, "If Sam wants to come up here and take a look around for the Winter Soldier, he's more than welcome to it. I have work to do. Maggie sighed, glancing at the mountain of paperwork. She had bigger fish to fry, the good captain's quest for the Winter Soldier would have to wait.

He was back on the roof. He was nearing the end, it would take another day and a half of work, but then he'd be gone. He glanced around the ranch was quiet. Ramirez hadn't bothered to turn on the radio and only came out of the office to work with clients before she retreated back inside. The eerie silence that had descended upon the place yesterday afternoon hadn't lifted. Suzanne had mentioned funeral which meant Tim was dead. That's what he'd heard. Everything made sense and fell into place. It would also explain why Ramirez had been late this morning and looked a little more than just disheveled. He shook his head and tried to focus exclusively on the roof. It was the only thing he was good for at present. _The faster you work, the faster you're out of here._

He worked without interruption until mid-afternoon when Mike and Davidson arrived. Davidson nodded in greeting before heading into the office without a word. Mike, however, approached the foot of the ladder and called up. "Hey Matt, a favor?"

_A Favor?_

"Have a couple picnic benches I need to get out to the back of my truck. If you'd be willing to help me offload them."

"Yeah. No problem." He climbed down from the roof and offloaded both picnic benches.

"Have a few more things to bring by for tomorrow. How have things been around here?" Mike commented as they placed the tables around the barnyard.

"Quiet."

"Yeah. That happens. Ramirez takes all this personally."

He nodded but said nothing. Should he say something? Offer his condolences? He didn't know what he ought to do.

"Mike!" Ramirez emerged from the office, Davidson behind her as they walked from the office. "See you got Matt to help." Ramirez embraced him. Releasing Mike from the embrace, she turned to him, a definite tinge of red around her eyes, her cheeks and face slightly puffy. "Thanks for helping, while I stole Bill away." She flashed a small brittle smile. "I appreciate it."

"Specifics for Tim's wake and service," Davidson interjected, glancing meaningfully between Mike and Ramirez, communicating a private message that he wasn't privy to.

"Anything you want us to do, Ramirez?" Mike asked, obviously picking up Davidson's meaning.

"Let's just focus on the party tomorrow. Bill and I have everything more or less settled for Tim. I'll be sure to let you know." Ramirez said shortly. Her tone was friendly, but her expression said, _drop it._

They were all interrupted by the sound of an approaching vehicle. "Oh great, what does _he_ want?" Ramirez growled, her expression stony, her whole body coiled tight, ready to lash out at the first sign of danger.

"You want me to get rid of him, Ramirez?" Davidson asked, voice low, almost deadly, as the man stood up straight, growing a good four inches both up and out.

"No. I'll be able to manage him. Don't do anything stupid. I can't afford the legal or medical bills, stay put." She warned gravely as she walked toward the approaching vehicle.

It was Jack Roberts, and he was with an older gentleman of similar build and appearance. _His father, perhaps?_

"The hell he bring Senior for?" Mike muttered.

"Insurance," Davidson said flatly, before glancing back at him. "Land developer. Want to commercialize. Junior's got most everyone around her. Ramirez is one of the last hold outs." Davidson supplied for his benefit.

_So he's bringing his father to strong-arm her? No. That wasn't it. Davidson had said Insurance. Insurance? Insurance from what?_

"Word around town is you scared the shit out of him last time," Mike commented.

"Oh." So word had traveled that he'd intervened. _Damn it._ Although Mike and Davidson didn't seem to mind, which meant that they knew to some degree that Roberts was dangerous. Roberts was the type to physically and verbally harass someone he thought of as his lesser. He knew the type, all too well. How much did they know? How would they react if they knew what Roberts had done? Of what he'd prevented? Would they be watching as calmly as they were now?

They all watched the exchange between the two and the two men. Her body language was tense but far less so than the last encounter he'd witnessed. Although they were well out of earshot. So none of them could quite make out what was being said between them.

Should he tell them? Warn them that Roberts might try something else? Try something a little more drastic than bringing his father along on a house call? _Your only responsibility is to fix the roof and move on. You've already gotten too involved._

"Oh, Good, they're done," Davidson commented dryly as the trio shook hands, and the two men climbed back into their vehicle and drove away. The woman watched them go, waiting until they were out of sight before turning back to face them. Her jaw was clenched, her face grave.

"Everything all right?" Davidson asked, an edge of concern to his voice that hadn't been there before.

"Yeah. We're good. I have to inside and make a few phone calls if you need me holler."

They all watched her go before Davidson turned to Mike. "All right. Let's bring the gang in." He paused turning to him. "Guess you should get back to that roof."

He nodded, and they went about their separate tasks. They were worried, but it seemed that Ramirez didn't want them to worry, wouldn't let them worry, even to her own detriment. She hadn't told them about what had happened that day between her and Roberts. Should he? _It's not really any of my business. Besides what difference would it make anyway_

* * *

We finally got to Sam! I love me some Sam Wilson. This one was on the shorter side of things, but I still love seeing Mags and Sam interact. Let me know what you thought! R&R! Until next time, Happy Reading!


	9. One Last Hurrah

Author's Note: Marvel owns what it owns, and I own what I own, let's keep it that way shall we? Don't Sue me!

Recommended Listening: Las Mananitas by Vicente Fernandez, I walk the line by Johnny Cash, El Paso by Marty Robbins, Yellow Rose of Texas by Roy Rogers, Volver, Volver by Ana Gabriel, Against the Wind by Bob Seager, Star Dust By Willie Nelson

* * *

Chapter 9: One Last Hurrah

_Don't cry, don't cry, you don't have time to cry._ She blinked back tears, the columns of numbers blurring in and out of focus. She ran her sleeve across her face, wiping at tears and sniffling. _No, no, no. You can't cry. You don't have time for this. _

Maggie took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, trying to ease the pounding in her ears and the tightness in her throat. Her hand trembled as she dialed Suzanne's number. They'd talked about this, and now it was time. She'd known the second that Roberts had come down the drive that she was in for another really shitty day. Unfortunately, she'd been right. Rather than trying to buy her outright, he was now going to starve her out, or rather starve her horses out. It was like he knew that she'd just emptied her savings for Tim's funeral, and now she didn't have the resources or the capacity to handle a steep price hike on her hay. It was like a shark smelling blood in the water, he'd just come in for the kill.

_No. You can't think like that. You have options, think this through. _She'd have to ask Suzanne for a favor until she could figure something out. She glanced up at the calendar and then down at her list of figures before hitting the call button.

The phone rang a few times before it went to voice mail, and Maggie had to resist the urge to hang up. _You're being stupid, ask for the hay, ask for help. _The tone beeped. "Hey Suzanne," She paused to clear her throat. "Sorry. It's Mags. Everything is fine, I'm okay. Roberts came by. I'm going to need to call in that favor. We can talk logistics Monday after everything, I have enough hay to last me a while, so it's not urgent, just needs to get settled soon. Thank you again, talk to you later. Bye!"

She hung up. Rubbing her face, she pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes, trying to relieve some of the pressure mounting behind her eyes. _You're not allowed to cry, you got yourself into this mess, you can get yourself out of it. _

She moved to push more of the envelopes out of the way and winced at the sound of the picture frame falling to the floor, the glass in the frame shattering. "Damn it." She crouched below the desk, fishing for the frame. Retrieving it, Maggie sighed, slumping against the desk. Holding the frame in one hand, she used the other to wipe away the dust from around the frame, her fingers tracing the lines of the shattered glass, tears dripping down her face. "What do I do, Riley? You always were the optimist? What do I do now?" Her voice warbled, as she sniffled, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. "What do I do now?"

The day concluded without further incident, and she managed to crawl upstairs and into bed rather than passing out on the couch. Morning came, and Maggie found herself curled up on the shower floor. The water streamed over her masking the tears that streaked her face. She would go out there and put on a happy face because that's what was needed. She had to be strong for her team for her clients. There would be time to process and grieve and mourn later, sooner than she cared to admit or think about. For now, she had to keep on fighting, keep on pushing through it. She couldn't give up now.

The water had started to run cold and stung her skin when she managed to haul herself from the tiled shower floor. She quickly dried and dressed, and pulling on her boots started out into the early morning mist. _Just one more day. Just make it through one more. _Maggie repeated to herself over and over. _One more day. _She told herself. As if she hadn't said the exact same thing for almost two years.

Maggie arrived at the barn and paused at the sound of footsteps and a low voice. Sliding the door back found Matt with a feed bucket in hand at Shadow's stall. She opened and closed her mouth a few times, his piercing blue eyes on her waiting for her to find her words. "You know you don't have to do that." She stammered after a moment.

"You were late." He answered, dumping the contents of the bucket into the trough.

"Thank you." She managed weakly. "I've been a little out of sorts."

"Understandable." He nodded, moving back to the feed barrel, carefully scooped up another portion. "The feed regimens on the board in the tack room are up to date, aren't they?"

"Yes. But-" She faltered as he glanced up at her.

"Suzanne is here."

"What?" Maggie stammered but stopped at the sound of a vehicle pulling up the driveway. "Oh. So she is." She turned but stopped mid-step. "I'll be right back." She rushed before walking from the barn.

"Got your call, sorry I couldn't call you back last night. Robinsons had a mare go into labor, and the poor girl needed some help." Suzanne explained, climbing out of her truck. "Figured since I was going to be coming by any way that we could talk now."

"Sounds good. Wanna talk on the picnic bench?"

Suzanne nodded, and they walked over to the picnic bench overlooking the pasture. They both settled down on top of the table and looked out over the rolling green hills. It was beautiful, near picturesque, which was going to make the coming conversation all the more difficult.

"So. What's the plan?" Suzanne asked without looking over at her.

The dreaded question. The question Maggie knew that Suzanne was going to ask. "I don't know."

"Bill told me you emptied your savings for Tim."

Maggie rolled her eyes, shaking her head. "You two are a couple of damn gossips."

"Only when it comes to helping you keep this place afloat." Suzanne paused, glancing over at her. "And before you say 'it's fine' we both know that's bull, and that you're not going to be able to hide that fact from everyone for very much longer."

Maggie lowered her head, shame welling in her chest until she could practically taste it at the back of her throat. "I didn't call you for a lecture Suzanne." She managed weakly.

"Maybe that's what you need, Mags. I know you're pissed at me and Bill for calling Wilson. But we all know he's the realist out of the three of you."

"Two of us, you mean. And yes, I know." Maggie nodded.

Suzanne said nothing, looking back out over the pasture. "So what's your plan? It's the only way we're gonna have a snowballs chance to save this place."

"Can we talk about this Monday? I just need a yes or no today about the hay. Everything else can wait until after this weekend."

"Sure. I can let you share some of my hay, but we both know this isn't just about the hay."

"Suzanne."

"Monday. It can wait until Monday." She agreed.

Maggie sighed, rubbing her face. "I need a break."

"You deserve one." Maggie glanced up at the older woman who was watching her closely. "Sometimes, the best you can do is to know when it's time to pack it up."

"You mean give up?"

"Look. Whatever you want to call it, there's no shame in calling it quits for a while until you can get your feet under you." Suzanne reasoned.

"You know I can't do that."

"At this rate, you might not have a choice."

Maggie exhaled sharply but said nothing. What was there left to say?

"Come up with a plan between now and Monday, and we'll talk it over."

"Yes, Ma'am." Maggie nodded.

"I'm not a ma'am, Ramirez." Suzanne clapped her on the back. "Come on. We have a party to throw."

They rose and walked back to the barn, Maggie's head spinning. _Just one more day, just make it through one more. _

He helped Suzanne and Ramirez lead the horses out to pasture before climbing back up on the roof. Suzanne and Ramirez walked around below, preparing for the evening's festivities.

He'd heard her crying in the barn yesterday evening after Davidson and Mike had left. And now today she'd been later than she'd been before. He tried to focus, but everything felt sharp and jagged, raw. Something twinged in his stomach every time he saw her, but he tried to ignore it, ignore the nagging feeling that all of this was going to end badly.

"Hey, Matt."

He glanced down to where Ramirez was standing at the foot of the ladder. She looked exhausted, her eyes ringed with dark circles. "A favor?" She asked uncertainly. "If you have a minute."

He looked over his shoulder at Suzanne's truck as it pulled away. "Sure. I can spare a minute." He nodded, securing his tools and climbing down the ladder.

"Tables and chairs from my storage closet," She explained shortly, motioning for him to follow her up toward the house. "It might take us a couple of trips. I don't think we can carry everything all at once." She said lightly. "Suzanne had to run into town to get some things from the grocery store."

She led him through the back door of the house into what appeared to be a laundry room. On the floor there were a half dozen pairs of shoes, a majority of them seemed to be men's sized, abandoned, or at the very least forgotten by the look of them. They entered the kitchen, dirty dishes occupied the counter space, the island littered with rolls of tin foil and plastic bags. The walls of the kitchen were no more than support beams and wire in places. _That's why there was all of the drywall._ He couldn't help but think. From the kitchen, she led him into a large living area. The walls were covered in corkboards, each laden heavily with scraps of papers and reminders. Most of them appeared to be coated in dust or flecks of old drywall. Everything except a shelf with photographs seemed to be covered in some kind of dust. She continued off to the right, where there was a narrow hallway with closet doors on either side. He walked toward the shelf as if drawn in by some magnetic force, pulling him toward it.

There he was, Wilson, standing beside Underdahl and Ramirez. She knew him, Wilson. Wilson was the man who had helped Steve Rogers and Natasha Romanoff on the bridge, and then again on the Hellicarrier. Wilson was the Falcon. He glanced between the faces in the photograph on the shelf. _She was happy here _was his first thought. The smile, the laughter, the glint in their eyes. They had been in love, all of them together. _Does she know who I am? Has Wilson instructed her to stall him? _Was the thought that followed the first. _That wasn't it, it couldn't be. The roof was a secondary issue, there was no way she could've planned having a roof leak. The terror and panic in her expression had been real, that much was evident._

_How much time do I have? _Not much. He'd leave while she was at the wake. Tonight he'd mingle and put on a willing face. He couldn't make a scene or arouse suspicions. Anyway, he'd be done with the roof tomorrow. _Leave now, leave now if she figures out who you are she'll call in Wilson and Rogers._ His mind screamed. _And? Why not? _He paused, taken aback. It was a new thought, or novel, to say the very least. But it didn't matter. He had to keep moving. He couldn't let Rogers find him, not yet, maybe not ever. He didn't know who he was, and he needed to get his mind in order before he could begin to sort through what it all meant, and the repercussions of that. He was a known international criminal. Steve Rogers might be Captain America, but nothing would change what he had done for Hydra. He couldn't let Hydra get their claws into him again either, and anonymity was imperative. He'd lingered too long. Soon, soon they'd come for him.

He glanced up and made eye contact with the statue set front and center of the shelf. Her gaze was stern, disapproving like she knew what he was. Like she knew what he was planning. Running away, as fast and as far as his feet would carry him. What was his alternative? Turn himself over to the authorities? Could they be trusted not to be Hydra? Would he receive a fair trial? Or would he be swept under the rug, repurposed as someone else's weapon? He couldn't take that chance. He wouldn't.

"That should be all of it," Ramirez announced, drawing his attention.

She'd hauled a dozen or so folding chairs and two card tables out of the closet, and they were all leaning against the wall. "Everything okay?" She asked, surveying him carefully.

"Thinking through what I need to do to finish up your roof," He answered shortly.

"Sorry for dragging you away. I'll return you to it here shortly. Promise. Are you close?"

"Should be done tomorrow." He answered.

"That's awesome!" She smiled. "I appreciate all your hard work. Seriously Matt, let me pay you for your time." She said as she started gathering up chairs.

"That's unnecessary." He replied firmly, collecting both tables in one hand, and three chairs in the other.

She starred, blinking before she wordlessly led them back out of the house again. She instructed him where to set up the tables and chairs, but he was mercifully allowed to go back to the roof when Suzanne returned with an armful of groceries.

Party preparation continued below as he worked, and as more people started to arrive the gloomy air that had descended over the place at the announcement of Tim's death began to ease slightly. Ramirez moved the radio out from the interior of the barn, and music filled the air, echoing over the afternoon air. When they brought the horses into the barn for the evening, Mike came to the foot of the ladder. "Come on, Matt, Ramirez isn't holding you hostage. Come down, get something to drink and eat, and meet everyone."

He climbed down wordless, and Mike handed him a soda and led him around to each group and introduced him to all of the volunteers and clients. They greeted him warmly, remarking on their gratitude for his work on the barn roof before Mike would take him to the next group. This continued until Mike was dragged away by Suzanne to tend the grill, leaving him alone. He didn't mind, it was nice to watch. It was what he was good at. It made him good at recon, made him a good agent.

Most all of Ramirez's clients and volunteers were former military or connected to the military in some way, but otherwise, it seemed they came from different walks of life. They all talked and chatted amicably, oblivious to his watchful eye. Bridget was talking about her day at the office with Mike, while Stephanie chatted about her students, eighth-graders, with Ramirez. Molly was sitting at the picnic bench with several other children coloring in pages from a horse coloring book. Mitchel was hovering by some of the other volunteers who were playing horseshoes. All around him, people were eating, talking, laughing, and generally enjoying one another's company. These people were all different, different, but for the virtue of knowing Ramirez.

He paused at the sensation of being watched and turned to see Davidson watching him from a distance. "Matt." Davidson nodded.

"Sir." He nodded in return.

"Not a sir, son," Davidson replied as he walked up to stand beside him.

He nodded, taking a sip of his soda.

Their gaze was drawn at the sound of laughter, at the center of it was Ramirez, wearing a reserved smile. "She's the lifeblood of this place," Davidson said, following his gaze. "The barn roof has needed to be replaced for a while now. We appreciate you taking it upon yourself to replace it." Davidson faltered. "I appreciate it." He amended. Every word felt forced as if the older man was battling himself for control, but what he was saying was genuine, meant it, even if he didn't want to.

What was he supposed to say to this man? He looked away and down. "It's the least I could do." He managed after a moment, taking another sip.

"The best thing you could do for her is leave," Davidson said shortly.

He didn't flinch, didn't even look over at him. Davidson knew what he was, knew that he was dangerous. He'd even told Ramirez as much. Yet here they were. "That's the plan." He said finally.

"Good." Davidson slapped him on the back. "Good talk, Matt" He walked away without another word.

He exhaled slowly, stomach twisting. Before he could begin to dissect what had just transpired, Ramirez's voice drew his attention.

"Hey everyone!" Ramirez rose, standing on the center picnic table. "I have a couple quick announcements to make before we cut the cake and start the fire pit. She glanced around as someone turned off the radio before continuing. "I want first to say thank you so much for coming this evening. It's always wonderful to see everyone. First and foremost, I want to wish everyone who had a birthday this month a happy birthday! And of course many many more." She glanced around, taking a deep breath. "Of course, tonight is also about memory. Remembering those who are no longer with us. For those of you who are interested and can attend, Tim's wake will be tomorrow. Bill is coordinating rides for all those who need or want them. I hope to see some of you there." She swallowed hard, looking down a moment. She blinked, taking a deep breath. She moved her mouth silently as if she was rehearsing what she was going to say. "Thank you for your patience with me this past week, and all appointments and schedules will resume Tuesday. Thank you again for all coming. I hope you're enjoying yourself! Now, cake!" Ramirez climbed down from the bench, and activity resumed, although a bit subdued than before.

The cake was cut and passed around, tables were cleaned off and stowed against the side of the barn, and the fire pit was lit just as the sun started to go down. A guitar was produced and passed around the circle of people gathered, a few people songs strummed out and sung badly before Ramirez was beckoned and sat at the center of the group. The ease of familiarity sunk in and around the group as they all found places to sit down. As if this were the most natural thing in the world. He hovered near the back, leaning against the barn wall, had a good vantage point.

Ramirez took to tuning the guitar before she glanced up and around at the assembled group. "All right, Bill." She smiled, eyes settling on the man. "You're the most senior of our birthdays this month, you get first request."

"The birthday song."

"The birthday song?" She echoed, picking out the tune to 'happy birthday to you.'

"No. You know the one I'm talking about."

Ramirez stopped, the lines of her face grave as she surveyed him. "Why that one, Bill?" A note of dread in her voice.

"Because it was Tim and Alice's favorite."

For the second time that evening, a heavy weight settled on the group. After a moment Ramirez nodded. "Okay. Okay, okay." She sighed. Clearing her throat, she began to strum, and then she began to sing.

"Estas son las mañanitas, que cantaba el Rey David, Hoy por ser día de tu santo, te las cantamos a ti…"

It was a sad, sweet-sounding song even though the lyrics were a celebration of the person's saint's day. Eyes closed Ramirez sang, her voice rich and true, piercing the silence of the early night, her hands moving deftly over the frets. It was beautiful, and as he looked over the faces of the volunteers, he found tears welling in their eyes. They were all grieving the life of their friend and colleague, yes. Yet, all of them were basking in Ramirez's light, which glowed around her in the firelight. He watched their expressions as they watched her. _They loved her_. He realized. This was more than admiration. _They Love her, all of them do. _Did she know? Did she know how much they all cared for her? Did they know how much she cared about them? He didn't know.

The song concluded, and there was a round of subdued clapping and less subdued sniffling.

Ramirez wiped her eyes before glancing around at the group. "So what's next? Mitchell. What about you?" She asked the gangly young man seated to her right.

He shrugged, eyes on the ground, but Ramirez leaned in toward him, and he mumbled softly. "Ooh. I like that one. But I don't think that I can get that low." Ramirez looked around, her eyes were bright, devious almost. "Mike. Johnny's I walk the line?"

"Aww, hell. That's a bit much, even for me."

"Come on, Mike."

"Fine. Fine." He cleared his throat.

"I'll count us off then." She smiled. "Two...three...four."

She played, and Mike sang, and almost everyone joined in. When they concluded, she clapped Mike on the shoulder. "All right. Since you were a good sport. You get to pick the next one."

"Marty Robbins, El Paso," Mike said.

Ramirez laughed, "You're trying to get on my good side, aren't you" She cleared her throat. "Bill. I think you and I can do this one. You know this one don't you?"

Davidson started protesting but was interrupted by the group, and he held his hands up in surrender. "All right. All right. Goddamn. Okay." He cleared his throat. "At your ready, Feelena."

"Ha. Ha. Ha." Ramirez rolled her eyes but started picking out the tune.

"Out in the West Texas town of El Paso, I fell in love with a Mexican girl…" Davidson sang, the slightest tinge of pink rising on Ramirez's cheeks, she smiled but continued playing. "Nighttime would find me in Rosa's Cantina, music would play, and Fellena would whirl."

The song ended with a round of cheers and clapping. Davidson extended his hand to the Ramirez, and she looked him up and down skeptically. "Yes?"

"My turn." He said firmly.

She handed over the guitar, and Davidson played a song before another member around the campfire asked for the guitar. They all sang along or clapped to the beat, every one of them beaming by the end of it.

"Now before we wrap up for the evening," Davidson announced. "I have one more that I'd like to play just for Ramirez."

She opened and closed her mouth, "Bill." She said, warning in her tone.

"Just stay put right there, Ramirez," Davidson instructed firmly as he started to tune the instrument for the song he wanted to play.

"Bill?" She repeated.

He flashed a wicked smile, clearing his throat before he began. "There's a yellow rose of Texas, That I am going to see, No other fellow knows her, No other, only me, She cried so when I left her, It like to broke my heart, And if I ever find her, We never more will part."

Ramirez went a bright shade of red, throwing her hands over her face as the rest of the group joined in singing and clapping along to the beat. The song ended, and Suzanne emerged with a bouquet of a two dozen yellow roses, tied with a black ribbon around the stems. Tears started streaming down her face, as she took the bouquet in her arms, and was immersed in a hug by the three nearest people who kissed her on the cheek.

People started lining up to hug her, and wish her goodnight. Until one by one, they departed, and it was just Davidson, Mike, and Suzanne remaining. "Well, that's another one for the books. Good job, kiddo." Davidson said as he came up to give her a hug.

"Thanks, Bill." She said, returning the hug. "I'll see you guys tomorrow, right?"

"That was the plan," Bill replied, releasing her from his embrace.

"You guys have a good night!" Mike waved as Davidson started toward the truck.

"I'll talk to you Monday about arrangements," Suzanne said cryptically as she pat Ramirez on the shoulder. "Night, Matt." She nodded toward him before she also moved toward her truck.

"Y'all have a good night." Ramirez waved as they pulled down the drive, watching as their tail light disappeared down the drive. "Now that wasn't so bad." She commented, sinking back down, the bouquet of yellow roses lying on the bench beside her, some of the blooms looked droopy and had begun to wilt in the heat of the evening air, the guitar sitting beside it.

"What do you mean?" He replied, moving from the barn doorway toward the fire pit.

"You don't seem to take well to crowds."

So she had noticed his discomfort. Well, of course she had.

"It's understandable. They can be a bit overwhelming." She commented, picking up the guitar, started plucking at the strings. "Did you enjoy yourself?"

It was a strange question. Enjoyment didn't factor into his daily experience, thus far. So he wasn't quite sure what to say. "It was interesting to watch." he managed finally.

Ramirez chuckled, nodding in agreement. "It certainly is that I'd imagine."

He glanced around, the ranch was quiet, the horses long bedded down. Ghost was out in the enclosure near the trough and under the overhang asleep. The stars were out and shining bright, and this woman was sitting here with him, playing the guitar as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

Davidson's words echoed a thousand times in his head. _The best thing you can do for her is leave._ The man wasn't wrong. He had lingered too long, and he was putting these people, putting her at risk.

He should say something. _Wanted_ to say something. What would he say to her? _I'm leaving tomorrow? Thank you?_ Nothing seemed to cover what he wanted to express. His gaze was drawn upward as she started singing to herself. "Sometimes I wonder why I spend the lonely nights dreaming of a song." It was soft and sweet and tender, and he watched as she sang.

He frowned. _I know that song._ He'd heard it before. Somewhere. He could hear the crackling of the radio, a soft and tender moment, he was holding someone's hands. "Stardust?" He managed, his voice rough compared to her's.

She nodded, her fingers picking at the strings, hands working the frets. "My grandfather was always partial to Willie Nelson's version, which is part of the reason why I learned it. My husband always liked Bing Crosby's version." Ramirez said.

Frank Sinatra and Tommy Dorsey, that was the version he'd listened to. He glanced back up at Ramirez, who had returned to humming the melody as she played. "How long have you been playing?"

"Oh. I guess on and off for about twenty years now." She commented, finishing the song, but the guitar back up on the picnic bench beside the roses.

"You play very well." He said.

"Thanks." She smiled. Glancing around, she sighed, rubbing her face. "I should probably head up for the evening."

"Do you want help moving the tables and chairs back in?"

"No. No, they can keep for tonight." She shook her head, looking down into the embers of the dying fire. "Thank you for your help today, and for your help with the roof in general. I do appreciate it. Tremendously," She said.

He nodded. _Say something. Tell her something. Tell her thank you. Tell her you're leaving. _His brain screamed.

"Have a good night, Matt. I'll see you in the morning." She rose, collecting the guitar and the bouquet of roses.

"You too, Ramirez." He replied. He waited until she'd gone into the house, and he could see her turn on the lights in each room she entered before he moved into the barn.

He lay back in the stall, his mind rushing and racing. Tomorrow he'd finish the roof, and he'd be gone. He couldn't endanger her any more than he already had. He'd lingered long enough. It was time for him to keep moving. He squeezed his eyes shut and fell asleep humming Stardust.

* * *

A/N: Thank you so much for reading, I hope you're enjoying! Feel free to drop a line, I'm always happy to hear what people think as the story progresses. R&R! And until next time, happy reading!


	10. Walking the Razor's Edge

Author's Note: Marvel owns what it owns, and I own what I own, let's keep it that way shall we? Don't Sue me!

CW: For Racial Slur

Recommended Listening: Who Are You, Really by Mikky Ekko; Zombie by The Cranberries

* * *

Chapter 10: Walking the Razor's Edge

He was awake and working on the roof by the time Ramirez came into the barn for the morning feed. She addressed him briefly as she fed the horses, leaving them in their stalls for the day. "I'll be back this afternoon." She concluded before walking back up to the house without another word.

She was on her way to Tim's wake. What struck him was that she fully expected him to be there when she returned. An assumption. What would she do when she arrived home and found him gone? Would she wonder? Would she figure out who he was? Would she simply move on with her life without a second thought after he was gone?

_Why are you thinking about this? You've gone soft._ A vicious voice in the back of his head snarled. _You won't survive if you keep thinking like _that. _Attachment is weakness, or did Hydra teach you nothing? _But he knew that the voice was wrong. Attachment wasn't weakness. It wasn't his weakness. It was their weakness. It was a weakness in there hold on him on their ability to control and manipulate him. _Then why aren't you staying? Why not reach out to Rogers?_ They were back to this line of reasoning.

There was a difference, he decided, between not wanting to people to get hurt and being willing to turn yourself over to the custody of someone you maybe, possibly, might have known. He didn't want to hurt these people, and so he was going to do what he knew would prevent that from occurring, which was leaving.

He finished up the roof around mid-afternoon and returned the tools, ladder, and extra supplies to the tool shed. Then he returned to the barn and swept the floor, clearing away the sawdust and wood chips that collected in the barn while he worked. He was stalling, he realized. Trying to find something else to do, something else to fill the time before the inevitable happened. _You have to leave. You have to go before Hydra finds you. _Stowing the broom, he turned to the issue of packing. He folded everything down tight, slipping the pen and notebook Ramirez had given him into the front pocket.

He froze at the sound of a vehicle pulling up the drive. It wasn't Ramirez's truck or Suzanne's. The vehicle stopped, and the doors opened as people stepped out. He strained to listen, focusing on the voices which were all indistinct and unfamiliar. Then he heard it, heard him.

"The wetback bitch shouldn't be back for some time. Let's get going boys and torch the place."

_Roberts._ What the hell was he doing? _You need to get out of here. You could slip away unnoticed. No one would be the wiser. _He glanced up and around at the barn. The smell and sound and heat of massive bodies occupying the space overwhelmed his senses._ They'll burn the barn down with the horses in it._ Guilt twisted in his stomach. _You're an idiot. _

He stood and walked to the barn entryway and found four men in addition to Roberts, hauling electrical equipment from the back of the truck.

"Can I help you with something?" He asked shortly.

They all froze and looked up. Setting down their various tools and equipment, all of the men rounded the truck lining up behind Roberts. "Well, well. Matt, isn't it?"

"Can I help you with something?" He repeated again, his voice sharper. Watching as the four other men started spreading out, closing distance between them and him.

"This isn't any of your concern." Roberts sneered.

"I rather think it is."

"Oh! Really? And what are you going to do about it, _Matt_?"

"I'm asking you to leave before I have to hurt you." He answered flatly. He didn't want to fight them. He'd rather hoped his presence would be enough to chase them off, but that obviously wasn't the case this time. He'd have to make good on his threat.

"Well, now isn't that a novel idea." Roberts chuckled in an attempt at being sinister.

Two of the four men approached one with a baton, the other with fists raised. Then something in his brain flipped, and all of a sudden, he wasn't in control anymore. He ducked and weaved, avoiding the baton and knocking the man wielding it to the ground, the second, and then the third and fourth came at him as well. He took them down quickly, faltering only when one of them managed to jab their taser into his left arm. Snatching the taser, he tossed it away, before sending the aggressor to the ground. All of this in one fluid, continuous movement, unbroken, and without thought. He stopped only as he realized he had someone by the throat.

He looked up and found Roberts writhing and struggling in his grasp. _It would be easy. Dispatch him before he can tell anyone your location. End him now before he compromises you. _The thought startled him. He knew he was capable of it, but the ease of which the instincts had overtaken his control. He dropped the man. Stepping back, just in time for Roberts to pull a knife and stab him in the right shoulder.

He looked up, making eye contact with the men and took several purposeful steps toward them. That was all it took. Scrabbling back into the truck, the men sped back down the drive toward the main road tires kicking up rocks.

His gaze followed the vehicle, his jaw clenched, a buzzing sensation emanating from prosthesis grew and quickly spreading through his spine and into the rest of his body. Sharp shooting pain accompanied the buzzing, and as he tried to flex the metal hand found it inert. It had been on it's way out, and now it looked like the taser had issued the final blow. When the Roberts disappeared from view, he looked down at the knife protruding from his shoulder. _Assess damage. Administer necessary repairs. Keep moving. _His training screamed. _Assess damage, administer repairs, keep on moving._

Grabbing the soldering kit from the tool shed, he charged to the outbuilding. Slamming the door behind him, he yanked the first aid kit from the wall and sat down on the long bench. Fumbling with the closing mechanism on the first aid kit, he opened it to find a suture kit, iodine, and enough gauze to be able to keep from bleeding out. Opening the suture kit, he removed the scissors and started cutting away his shirt from the bottom up, his hand clumsy, ignoring the shooting pain, the left hand and arm hung limply in his lap. _It had been too easy. He could've killed those men, and it wouldn't have taken any effort at all. _His mind raced as he tried to focus on what he was doing.

His attention was drawn to the sound of footsteps, and he rose, staggering to his feet as the door swung open. His body tensed, preparing itself to fend off further attack. "Matt?" Ramirez stammered, standing in the open doorway. Her expression cycled through confusion, shock, horror, and disbelief in rapid succession as she surveyed him.

_She's a threat, neutralize the threat. She's a threat, neutralize the threat now! _His mind screamed. He wanted to leave, he wanted to escape. The air was choked with the smell of blood, and mildew and it caught in his chest. He wanted to push past her, wanted to escape before she could call someone. Before she got him caught. Before she compromised him. Before he could hurt her in an act of self-preservation.

Then, in the deafening silence came Ramirez's cell phone. They flinched, his gaze flickering between her and her bag where the ringing was coming from. She met his gaze uncertainly, her hand frozen mid-motion, reaching for the pocket.

_Who could it be? Would she raise the alarm? Would it be worse if she didn't answer? Would Roberts send someone out here? _His mind spun. "Answer it." He ordered.

Ramirez nodded and removed it from her bag. Clearing her throat, she answered. "Last Chance Ranch, Maggie speaking!" Her voice chipper and bright, with no hint of what she saw before her. She paused, glancing at him as the person on the other end of the line started speaking. "Yes, Officer, this is she. What can I do for you today?" She asked pleasantly.

_Fuck. _It was the police. Roberts and his men must've called them after their little altercation. _You have to leave, you have to go now. You can't let them take you. _It would be easy to push past her; she was distracted. She was so much smaller than him, even wounded, it wouldn't take much for him to pacify her.

Her voice pulled him back. "Huh." She continued, her facial expressions shifting as her tone did. "That's strange, I just got home from a wake, and everything here is fine. I don't know what vagrant Roberts is talking about. You're more than welcome to come out and take a look, but everything out here is quiet." Her whole body's language was mirroring her tone. A masterful performance, but a performance none the less.

_She was lying to a cop. _She was lying to a cop for him. He could hardly believe it. _Why?_ He didn't know.

"No. No. I appreciate the call. It's good to know that Roberts was out here trespassing. No. I don't want to press charges… Thank you... Yes, thank you. I'll be sure to let you know if I see anything strange. Yes Sir. Thank you. Bye Bye." She hung up and turned the phone off, slipping it back into her bag.

There were several beats of silence as they both surveyed one another. She looked perfectly at ease. Nothing about her tone, posture, or expression gave him any indication that she was alarmed or otherwise put off by what she was seeing. "You're hurt." She said.

"You lied to him." He replied.

"Am I assume that if he had come by for a wellness check, you would've gone quietly?" She asked sarcasm dripping from her words.

_Well, she wasn't wrong._ He didn't say anything. His eyes still darting, trying to plot his escape, calculating his chances of making it past her, and how far he'd be able to get. The numbers weren't great.

As if sensing this, she took a step into the outbuilding, stepping out of the doorway and leaving a clear path for him to take if he wanted to. Her dark eyes worked, running an evaluation of her own. "I take it Roberts didn't come by to offer his condolences."

"Not exactly." He said.

"Party favor?" She motioned to the knife in his shoulder.

"Something like that."

"Thank you for not killing any of them, that would've been difficult to explain," Ramirez said appreciatively. Pausing, she took a deep breath as if summoning the will to do whatever would come next. "You're hurt. Let me help you."

"Why?" He snapped, voice shaking. He took a step back, back nearly against the wall of the bathroom stall, hand wrapped around the scissors.

"Well." She began slowly. "I don't think either of us has much choice. Proper medical attention isn't an option for you, but I can't in good conscience let a man who's done nothing but good since he arrived here walk out of here with a knife sticking from his shoulder."

_You have to leave. You have to go. You're wasting time, and she's stalling. She's going to get you captured. _

"It's the arm," Ramirez continued when he didn't respond. He looked up, meeting her direct and open gaze. "Isn't it?" Something is wrong with it. That's why you're not already out of here. If it were fully operational, you wouldn't have waited around, stab wound, or not."

_She knew. She had to know. _Her calm demeanor, her no-nonsense. It all seemed fake now. It was difficult to surprise anyone who knowingly let the Winter Soldier sleep in their barn. How long had she known? Had she called Wilson and Rogers? That was her game. Stall him long enough for Rogers and Wilson to arrive. Is that why she had lied to the cop?

"How long?"

"Suspected? About two days. Known for certain? Just about now." She answered, honestly. "But I think you know who I am, that I know Sam Wilson, the Falcon. I haven't called him. Frankly, when he asked if I'd see anything weird, I thought he was stupid for even suggesting that you'd stop somewhere like here. But here we are."

Wilson was looking for him up here. That meant Hydra couldn't be too far behind either. He was losing time. He had to leave, he had to get out, but there was no way that he'd be able to treat his own wounds on the run. He couldn't even administer necessary repairs right now with the relative supplies, which left him with few options.

"Look," Ramirez said slowly. "Let me help you. Talk me through the repairs I'm a fair hand with a soldering iron, and I have some more advanced first aid training. I can get you patched up so you can get out of here."

She wasn't wrong. He knew she wasn't wrong. He didn't have a choice, but then again, neither did she. She'd already lied to the police, Wilson was looking for her, and Hydra was on his tail. If he didn't leave soon, both their lives would get exceedingly more complicated than they already were. What did he have to lose by letting her help him? They'd come this far, they'd go a little bit further before it was all over.

"Okay." He nodded.

"Okay." Ramirez agreed. "I'm going to wash my hands and put on gloves, so I don't come into contact with your bodily fluids. Can you sit down on the bench, please." She instructed firmly.

He complied wordlessly, watching as she closed the outbuilding door, and crossed the room to sink. She set about her task, setting down her bag, and pulling off her blazer. Rolling up her sleeves, she went to the sink. There she scrubbed down her hands and forearms in water so hot it raised steam and turned her hands a pinkish color. Her expression was flat as she moved, pulling on gloves and grabbing and arranging the proper supplies. She paused only momentarily to stand in front of him, her eyes giving him a once over before she extended her hand to him, open-palmed. "Scissors, please."

He handed them over cautiously, placing them in her palm. "Okay." She said lightly. "I'm going to cut away your shirt and jacket. Fortunately for you, I have replacements that should fit." She commented. "Is that okay?" Ramirez paused, waiting for his response.

He nodded, and only then did she approach.

"I'm going to start with the bottom and work my way up. cutting all of this into four pieces, to begin with, and then trimming around the stab wound." She explained. "Is that okay?" She asked again.

Again he nodded, and she set to work. Ramirez worked quickly, humming to herself as she cut, her motions sure and steady. She showed no sign of fear or uncertainty, as if she had done this for a living, and had no problem performing next to light surgery on someone like _him._ _And what is that exactly? _His brain sneered. _A murder? A terrorist? A threat?_

"How we doing?" She asked as she finished the first cut up the front and around the stab wound.

"Fine."

"Good. I'm going to move behind you so I can cut down the back." She explained. "Would you like to turn and face the mirror so you can see what I'm doing?"

This question made him pause. She had been narrating and telling him what she was doing. That made sense. That was practical, and tactically made sense. This question. This question was about his _comfort_. She was right, though. He didn't want her behind him with a sharp implement. The very thought made his heart pound and his skin itch. And she'd thought to ask. _She's doing you a favor, and she's still thinking about your comfort._ It was almost too much to believe.

"I'll turn." He said shortly, swallowing hard. She took a step back, allowing him to position himself, waiting for him to nod before she resumed work.

"Your hair is hanging down on your collar. May I brush it away so I can avoid giving you a really bad haircut?" She asked lightly.

"Yes." He braced, nearly flinching as her gloved fingers made contact with his skin. One hand holding his hair out of the way while the other manipulated to scissors, diligently cutting away his clothes.

"Okay, and we're done with the back seam. How we doing?" She announced, letting go of his hair.

"Fine." He glanced up at her as she moved around front.

"I'm going to cut away your right sleeve and then your left. Is that okay?"

Again, she was asking for his consent. Was it because she was afraid of him? That if she didn't, he might hurt her? No. That didn't seem to be it. Which, again, meant she was thinking about his comfort. He nodded, and she started cutting his sleeve, working from the cuff up toward the collar. She resumed humming as she worked, and he watched her. She should be terrified. _She should be afraid of me, of what I might do._ He remembered Hydra, before his last wipe, administering repairs, armed to the teeth, weapons trained on him, ready to put him down should he make a false move. Yet here she was, still dressed for a funeral, humming as she worked.

"You're taking all of this exceedingly well," He commented dryly.

"Well." Ramirez sighed, pausing, she scratched her forehead with her wrist. "I'm burying my friend tomorrow, my ranch is weeks from foreclosure, and Jack Roberts is up to his usual fuckery. This may as well just happen." She said, her drawl thick.

There it was. The resignation. The desperation. The inevitability of the whole situation, summed up in a simple, concise phrase: this may as well happen.

She clipped the last bit of fabric of the sleeve and gently pulled away the right side of his jacket and shirt. She rounded the bench and stood in front of him, pausing as her eyes settled on the metal hand of the prosthesis.

Her expression bore no immediate reaction, and her face remained smooth and unaffected. _What was she thinking? Certainly, she was having some kind of response to seeing it, to seeing that kind of tech._

"How much mobility do you have with your prosthesis presently?" She asked, looking up and addressing him directly. He must have given her a puzzled look because she continued. "If it's dead weight, I need your permission to touch manipulate the prosthesis." She explained.

His stomach twisted, and he could feel them, hear them, the so-called doctors and handles with cold, rough hands, ready with a tranquilizer if he resisted.

"Hey." her voice called gently, and he blinked, looking back up at her. "Hey," Ramirez repeated, she'd taken a step back, her hands in clear view, her voice soft. "I don't want to hurt you. Let me know what you need me to do."

He exhaled a shaking breath. "It's unresponsive. I can't move it." He said shortly.

"Would you like me to try to pull the sleeve off rather than cutting it away? I won't have to touch your prosthesis that way if it makes you uncomfortable to have other people touching or moving it." She explained tentatively.

He shook his head. His skin itched, his whole body throbbing, even as white-hot sparks of pain shot through his spine and throughout the rest of his body. "You're going to have to cut it." He paused, looking into her concerned features. She was concerned for him? "This may as well happen." He added dryly. It was the best he could do to cut some of the tension in the room. Even as he fought himself second to second to keep from pushing her away and making his escape. He wanted to claw at the metal seam, claw, and scratch and tear at the flesh as if that would somehow ease the burning sensation, and make the buzzing in his spine stop.

"Okay." She nodded. "I'm going to sit down. That way I can support and move the prosthesis a little bit easier. Is that okay?"

He nodded and moved over, allowing her space to straddle the bench, her body facing him. "Let me know if I need to stop for any reason." She said. Supporting the prosthesis with one hand, she cut up the sleeve with the other.

Ramirez worked diligently, and he watched her as she pulled the fabric away from the metal prosthesis, which glinted in the flickering fluorescent lights, gauging her reaction. "They really didn't do you any favors with this, did they?" She commented, her expression grave as she cut around the curve of the elbow.

He didn't comment and instead evaluated her expression critically. Was it anger that he saw in her eyes? And anger at whom? Hydra? On his behalf? Why?

"I'm sorry you got caught up in all of this." She continued after a moment. "This whole thing with Roberts."

He didn't know what to say. Did she hear herself speaking? She knew he was the winter soldier, probably knew he was Hydra or former Hydra, and she was apologizing to him? Did she know what he'd done? No. She had no clue. She couldn't know.

She cut the shoulder seam, and the rest of his shirt and jacket fell away, leaving him naked from the waist up. Gently setting the prosthesis back down, she returned the scissors to their place, and rose, standing squarely in front of him. She did a quick physical inventory, her dark eyes working fast as she tried to evaluate her next move.

"Repairs to the prosthesis take priority." He bit out shortly. He needed the arm functional. He needed it to work so he could escape. He needed it to survive. Everything else was secondary.

"But-" She cut herself off when she saw his expression. "Okay." She raised her hands in surrender. "Okay. I'm going to plug in the soldering iron. You're going to have to talk me through what I'm doing. I'm a fair hand at soldering, but your prosthesis is a little more advanced than anything I've worked on."

He turned his head away and down, blinking, his heart pounding even louder and faster in his ears. He could feel the dread settling in his stomach. The sensation of cold, sterile hands on him was near, he could practically feel them on him. The pain swelled, making his head spin, and he squeezed his eyes shut, his breath hitching in his chest. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block it out. _Sargent Barnes._ The slimy, slippery voice of Zola whispered in his ears.

"Hey," Ramirez called. "Hey, I need you to stay with me. You're wounded and hurting. I know this is scary, but I'm going to help you. I'm going to make it stop hurting. But you have to stay with me. "She started talking through a breathing exercise, just like she had a few days before, her voice rooting in him in reality even as his brain tried to tell him otherwise. Eventually, he opened his eyes, and the outbuilding came swimming back into focus. "Hey," She said gently. "What's your name? What do you want me to call you? If we're going to get through this together, I need your name." He frowned, looking up into her concerned features. "Come on. We both know Matt isn't your _real _name." She ribbed gently with a soft smile.

_How did she know? What did she know? How had she guessed Matt was a fake name? _Panic set in, before somehow better sense stepped in. It didn't matter. She already knew what he was, a name was just a name._ She's helping you, she's done nothing but help you. You owe her this at the very least. _"James." He said slowly. Even saying the name felt strange, but it was the only name he could give her that was anything close to the truth of it.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, James," She said, "I wish it were under better circumstances."

_James. _She'd called him James. It was familiar, somehow, almost comforting. He blinked slowly, trying to focus on what was going to get him out of here. "Scalpel. You'll use it to pry open the panels on the side of the arm." He instructed.

"Okay. Okay, that sounds good. Do you know which one or just all of them?" She asked, grabbing the first aid kit, she removed the scalpel from its sterile packaging before sitting down beside him and the prosthesis again.

"No." He shook his head, jaw clenched, body tense, as if the tension was the only thing keeping him upright.

"All right. So it'll be a process of elimination here I take it." Ramirez commented, sticking the scalpel into the panel's edge. "Let me know if I'm hurting you, James." She said, popping open the first panel.

"Anything?"

"Everything seems to be intact on this one. Would you like me to close it up or keep it open until we find the problem child?"

"Open."

"Okay." She nodded and continued. "I'm not hurting you with this, am I?" She asked as she worked, popping open three more panels.

"No." He shook his head.

"Okay. Well, let me know if I do something that hurts you, James." She said, "I don't want to hurt you. And if it is hurting you, we can stop and figure out what to do to make it hurt less."

He didn't know what to do or say. It hurt, everything hurt, but she wasn't hurting him. And yet he wanted to push her away, tell her to get her hands off him, to leave him alone. He glanced down at his right shoulder, blood seeping slowly from the wound, an overwhelming urge to remove the knife from his shoulder. It was two, maybe three inches deep. It hadn't hit anything significant. Even if it had, he'd walked off worse. He'd survived Hydra and would survive this.

"Absolutely not. One thing at a time." She said shortly.

He glanced up at her. She hadn't even looked up. "It's a natural instinct, and it's probably the worst thing you can do for yourself right now." Ramirez paused as she popped open another panel. "Okay. I think we found our problem. Let's take a look at what we got here." She leaned in toward the arm to get a closer look, and he stiffened even more than he thought already possible but stopped short of outright flinching. She moved away again at looked up into his face. "Okay. Talk me through what's going on," She prompted.

"I." He faltered. He didn't know to say. It was hard to explain, mainly because he never had in the past. Hydra hadn't asked. "I-I don't know." He stammered. _Just fix it. Just fix it. _He wanted to scream. His control over the pain wavered moment to moment, and he might just lose it completely.

"That's okay." She said gently. "I'm going to repair what I can see is damaged, and if that doesn't help or resolve what's going on, we can problem-solve to work through the rest of it." She rose and grabbed the soldering iron and coil, and returned to the bench. "Let me know if I'm hurting you, James, or when it seems to be working."

She worked quickly. Her hands were steady, and as she completed each repair, she spoke to him in low tones, like she was soothing a spooked horse. Mostly whispering that he was doing well, asking if she was hurting him, asking him how he was feeling if the arm was getting any better, and it was, bit by bit. It buzzed like a limb that had fallen asleep, but the pain had subsided substantially. She finished the one panel and had moved onto to discover another two panels with similar damage.

"How are we doing, James?" She asked, finishing up the last panel. She blew on it gently, raising goosebumps on his rib cage.

He exhaled a shaky breath. "I'm fully operational." He managed.

She hesitated, opening her mouth to say something. She must've thought better of it because she closed her mouth, closed and secured all the panels, and turned off the soldering iron. "Done." She said, and moved away. He turned his attention to the arm and hand, flexing the hand experimentally. It wasn't perfect, but it would work. Ramirez was watching him, and he looked up to meet her gaze.

"Better?" She asked uncertainly.

"Yes." He glanced at the knife, still sticking out of his shoulder.

"Yes, now we can take it out." She said, tearing open a pack of gauze pads.

Without hesitating, he reached up with the prosthesis and yanked the knife out. "Not!" She started before she pushed the gauze against the wound as it blossomed with blood. "Like that." She glowered, applying even pressure on his shoulder with both hands.

"He didn't hit anything major, and it wasn't very deep," He replied.

"Hand me another pack of gauze." She ordered shortly.

He nodded, fishing another package of gauze out of the first aid kit, ripped open the package with his teeth, and extended it to her. She took it, adding it on top of the first pack. "You've done this before."

"EMT training," She answered shortly, pushing down even harder.

He flinched, the only momentary lapse in his control over his pain.

"Sorry." She apologized. "More gauze."

They did this until the bleeding stymied. "Sew me up, your hands are steadier than mine at the moment." He ordered.

"Okay. Put pressure on it while I get the suture kit out and ready." She instructed.

He moved to put the left hand on the gauze pad, catching her watching him and it curiously. "That's a mean piece of tech. It doesn't seem very well suited for wearer comfort." She commented, opening the bottle of iodine.

He braced, waiting for the comments and questions to come. She probably had a million things she wanted to know. They didn't come. Instead, she peeled back the layers of gauze and poured some of the iodine over the wound. He exhaled through clenched teeth.

"Sorry. It's probably a little cold." She apologized, sealing the bottle, and sopping up the extra. She removed the suture kit from the first aid box and started setting up. "And while I know you won't, let me know if I'm hurting you, and if I need to stop, James." She said and set to work, right hand firmly grasping the forceps the left manipulating the thread, scissors, and tweezers.

She was all business, working efficiently, her stitches tidy and neat. Her hands were steady and didn't falter. "Breathe, James," Ramirez commented softly, and he glanced down to find both hands balled into fists. His whole body was tense beneath her touch. "We're almost done."

"I'm fine." He snapped.

"You're doing great." She replied pleasantly, ignoring his snipe.

He watched her in the mirror, her whole being was focused on her task. She had been nothing but kind to him. She had fed, clothed, and protected him. Now she was providing medical aid and emergency repairs on his prosthesis. Hydra, no doubt, was on his tail now. They would follow him to the ends of the earth, and he'd lead them right to her. He inhaled sharply before he spoke. "You need to call your friend. You're in danger."

"Hydra's coming after you. Aren't they?" She said slowly.

"Yes." He replied.

"Sam said you defected."

"They're not going to just let me go."

"I gathered." Ramirez tied off another knot. Her hands paused in their motion. "I don't know Captain America, but I know Sam Wilson. He's a good man, he'll help you if you let him."

She was trying to get him to stay. Trying to convince him not to keep running. "They can't help me, and neither can you. You should be more concerned about yourself." He said sharply.

"I appreciate your concern." She replied, tying off the last knot, "But whatever you're running from, you're not going to be able to run forever."

He didn't say anything in response. She wasn't wrong. He couldn't run forever, but he would run for as long as he could. He wasn't going to just roll over and let Hydra take him.

Ramirez ran an iodine wipe over the surface of the wound before applying a layer of gauze and tape. "And I'd say take it easy, but I get the feeling that's out of the question." Standing up, she turned back to face him squarely. "How'd we do?"

He nodded in response. Rising to his feet, he glanced around. "You mentioned clothes."

"There are some long sleeve shirts in the bottom drawer, and a jacket hanging on the back of the door. It's fairly versatile." She explained as she started cleaning up the bench.

He said nothing, removing items from the various drawers and dressed. Then he took the coat from the back of the door and paused, standing in the threshold, looked up at her.

"One more thing," Ramirez said, pulling off her gloves and throwing them in the trash, she picked up her satchel removing a roll of bills from a front pocket. Crossing the distance between them, She extended the roll toward him. "It's not much. But wherever you're going, you'll need some cash. It should get you out of town."

She was right. He knew she was right, he did need the cash, but she had just admitted she was weeks away from foreclosure. He couldn't take the money from her. Not after everything she'd done for him, and everything that was about to happen to her before this was all over. "You should call your friend. You don't have much time." He said shortly.

"I'd be more worried about yourself." She replied.

He paused. He wanted to say something. Wanted to say thank you. Wanted to say good luck or be safe or something. But he couldn't. What could he possibly say that would be sufficient in the circumstances? Instead, he nodded and turned away toward the barn. He had to get moving. He was losing light fast, and he had a lot of ground to cover.

_You're making a mistake. You can't leave her alone against Hydra._ His brain screamed, but he ignored it. He couldn't risk it. He couldn't risk capture by Hydra. He'd told her to call Wilson. Wilson and Steve Rogers could protect her, he had to get as far away from this place as possible as quickly as possible. He had to leave, leave before Hydra could get their hands on him. That was the best thing he could do for her. That was the _only _thing he could do for her.

* * *

I hope you enjoyed! Please remember to R&R (Please feed the plot bunnies)!

As a fun aside! I first finished a draft of this chapter (or bits of this chapter) All the way back in late November early December of 2016 (yanno in the wake of CA: CW). While a lot has changed about this fic, this was always one of the most central and pivotal scenes (since I started this bad boy way back in 2014). Next up! Maggie dealing with the fall out from all this stuff!


	11. Up In Smoke

Author's Note: Marvel owns what it owns, and I own what I own, let's keep it that way shall we? Don't Sue me!

Content Warning: Torture, Swearing, and a single racial slur

Recommended Listening: Comfortably Numb by Pink Floyd; Fall Into Me by Alev Lenz; O Death by Jen Titus; and Hide and Seek by Imogen Heap

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Chapter 11: Up In Smoke

Maggie wanted to throw up or rather throw up again. She hadn't watched him go. It was better for plausible deniability that she didn't. _Guy? What guy? No. I have no idea where he went. He was gone when I came back from the wake I was hosting for my friend._

In truth, she'd wanted to throw up in peace. The tension and anxiety, and if she was honest with herself, the outright fear and anger that had been welling in her chest had turned and twisted in her stomach. So as if trying to flush out a poison, her body had decided that the best course of action would be to throw up.

She'd thrown up and cried, and then had walked out into the late afternoon.

By the time she'd made it back to the barn Matt...James...The Winter Soldier...whoever was gone. Stall ten was empty, and there was no trace that it had even occupied for nearly two weeks. _You should have known. You should've known who he was. _Her mind raced and spun as she thought back over her interactions with the man. She should've seen the signs, should've known there was something different, something_ wrong_ with her interactions with him. But she came up blank. There was nothing in their interactions, nothing about what he'd said or done that could've clued her in to his _actual_ identity. He behaved like a lot of her clients and volunteers, a former soldier with PTSD and chronic pain issues, tossed in with substance abuse. She knew a lot of people like that. _How was I to know that he was the Winter Soldier, a goddamn cyborg who worked for Hydra? _That thought gave her pause. The prosthesis. That prosthesis hadn't been made for wearer comfort or mobility. That had been made for power and strength, with little thought of the user in mind. She'd seen the scars, more like claw marks on his shoulder. _Had he tried to dig it out? Had he fought against them? _What did any of it mean?

_You should call your friend._ That's what he said. Hydra was coming for him, and it likely meant they would go through her to do it.

Maggie needed to call Sam. She needed to tell him what she knew what had transpired. She needed to tell him that yes, the Winter Soldier had been camping out in her barn for damn near two weeks, and she'd just found out. _That_ was going to be a fun conversation.

She sighed, heading toward the tack and feed room. She knew all of this, knew that time was of the essence, and that whatever Hydra was going to bring, it was not going to be pretty. She knew of this, so why was she stalling?

Maggie pulled her phone out and dialed in Sam's number. Holding it to her ear, she held her breath as she listened to it ring.

"Come on...come on...answer..." She muttered.

_You've reached the voice mailbox of Sam Wilson. Can't come to the phone right now, leave a message and I'll get back to you as soon as I can. Thanks!_

_"_Typical." She muttered before the beep. "Hey! It's me. Uhhh. I think I'm in a bit of a situation. I think you need to come up to the ranch for a visit. Soon. Real Soon. I'm fine, everything's fine. I just...yeah...call me back so I can explain. Talk to you soon, love you. Bye!" She hung up, swearing under her breath.

"Call any time Mags, I'm always happy to talk to you Mags, You know I'll drop everything for you Mags." She muttered in a mocking tone under her breath. "Yeah. Yeah, bullshit." She rolled her eyes.

_This isn't just any situation, Mags. Those people are going to hurt you if they get a hold of you. You have to call Sam again. You have to get ahold of him and warn him what's going on._ "Okay Okay. I'll call him again after I've finished with evening feed." She set her phone down, picking up the feed bucket.

"Alrighty, ladies and gents who's hungry?"

Maggie turned on the radio and worked quickly, humming to herself. She couldn't get the look of terror in his eyes out of her head. The raw and absolute fear etched on his expression when she'd opened the door. The way he flinched or nearly jerked away when she touched him. _He wasn't working for them, he was their prisoner. _It was the only explanation for his behavior and for the prosthesis.

She was pulled from her thoughts as a car drove up the driveway to the front of the house. _No one pulls in that way. _She set the feed bucket on the picnic bench and started up the hill.

"Can I help you with something?" She asked, approaching the man and woman dressed in tidy black suits who were emerging from the nondescript black sedan.

"Are you Mrs. Underdhal?" The man asked, his dark hair was slicked back, his eyes obscured by dark sunglasses.

Positioning herself between the duo and the house, Maggie glanced them over. There was nothing that outright _screamed _danger about them, but something was decidedly _off, _and for her, that was enough_._ Where they Hydra? She'd expected more guns and explosions out of the Nazi organization. _Okay, so what are you going to do? _She cleared her throat, smiling. "I am. What can I do for you, folks?"

"Mrs. Underdhal, We're with the department of homeland security." The woman explained as they both removed and flashed badges, stowing them back away before she could get a good look. "We need to ask you a few questions."

"Can I ask what this is in relation to?"

"There have been sightings of a dangerous fugitive in the area. We've been told you may be able to assist us in our investigation." The woman explained, her blond hair bobbing slightly as she spoke.

"Of course." Maggie nodded in a way she hoped appeared cooperative and helpful. "I'm more than happy to assist you in any way that I can. Unfortunately, I'm headed out for the funeral rosary service this evening for a friend of mine. Can you leave me with your contact information? I'd happily make an appointment to talk with you at your office sometime later tonight or tomorrow."

"Mrs. Underdhal, I don't think you understand the urgency of the situation." The man said shortly.

"I am sorry, under any other circumstance I'd be more than happy to help you right now, but I'm leading the rosary, and I've been friend with Tim's wife Alice for ten years, I introduce them you know, and she's just in such shock right now. I really can't miss it. I'm so sorry." She rushed. "If you give me your phone number, I'll call you as soon as I'm done and we can talk after." It was a dangerous gambit, and she held her breath as the duo glanced at one another. The woman nodded, and the man reached into his pocket, producing a business card.

"When exactly will you be done?" The man asked.

"Service begins at seven, so should be done right around eight. I really do have to go." She said quickly, taking the card. "I'll call you then. Thank you so much for understanding."

"Of course. We look forward to speaking with you very soon."

Maggie nodded, retreating to the porch and going to the front door. She glanced over her shoulder at them, where they were both watching her, motionless. _They didn't buy that for a goddamn moment. C_losing the door and locking it, she reached for her phone.

_It's down in the barn, you moron. Fuck! _Her eyes darted to the gun case where the shotgun was stored, fully loaded, and ready to be fired.

She started toward it, her mind bent around the thought. She made it two steps before the door behind her was knocked from its hinges, and she was knocked to the floor, slamming her head against the hardwood floors. No time for quips or brave last stands, she lost consciousness, only vaguely aware of the rough hands that grabbed her.

Maggie awoke moments later to the unfortunate sound of ransacking. She moaned. Blinking, she found she was zip-tied to the kitchen table by her ankles, elbows, and wrists.

"She's awake, Jones." The woman said as Maggie stirred.

There was the further sound of crashing before the man, now identified as Jones, entered the kitchen. "Glad you could join us, Mrs. Underdhal." He commented. "Do you mind if I sit?"

"No. By all means, make yourself at home." She drawled, wincing at the pain throbbing at her hairline.

"Thank you for so generously taking time out of your busy schedule to talk with us, Mrs. Underdhal." Jones sat down across from her, while the unidentified woman walked behind her rifling through the kitchen drawers. "Or may I call you Magdalene?"

"I'd prefer if Ms. Ramirez if it's all the same to you two, _lovely_ people." She answered.

"Of course. Ms. Ramirez." Jones nodded, producing a folder from his briefcase. "We're sorry that we're forced to talk in such circumstances, but I'm afraid you've been mixed up in something much bigger than you realize, and as I mentioned before, time is of the essence." Jones glanced behind her. "Williams, have you made your selections."

"I have." She answered. Coming up behind her, Williams set several kitchen implements on the table: a marble rolling pin, a meat tenderizer, a rubber mallet, and several knives ranging from a paring knife to a clever.

"Oh, this is a pick your own torture device adventure, that's cost-effective. I'd imagine Hydra's had some budget cutbacks recently," Maggie drawled.

"Very clever, Ms. Ramirez," Jones smirked.

Maggie's skin crawled. She wanted to punch the smarmy little smile off his face out, her hands were clenched into fists, her fingernails creating small crescent-shaped indentations in her palms. _Where the fuck is Sam? God. Did he get her voice mail? Had he been trying to call her back?_ Her mind raced, even as she tried to stay focused and in the moment.

"Now. We have it on good authority that you were harboring this man." Jones said, opening the file folder pushed a glossy photograph across the table for her to look at.

It was a photo of James. He was wearing a military uniform, an American military uniform. Maggie surveyed it carefully. The photograph, that photograph, she'd seen it before. "I'm sorry. But no. I haven't seen that man before in my life," She said, glancing up at Jones, who was watching her like a hawk.

"Oh, Ms. Ramirez, you're going to have to do better than that." He pushed another photo across the table toward her. It was a grainy photo of her and Bill, with the back of James's head just in view.

When had this been taken? How long had Hydra had tabs on the place? Her head spun. She blinked a few times. All she could see was James, in the outbuilding, the fear radiating off him as she'd been working on him, and the pain he'd been in. The absolute horror that had been driving him to run. James was afraid of these people, of Hydra, and she should be too. What was she going to do? What could she do? If she didn't help these people, she was dead. If she helped these people, she was still going to be dead. This was a lose-lose scenario for everyone involved. _Stall. Stall as long as you can. Sam's coming for you. _It was a long shot, but what was her alternative?

"Sorry." Maggie began slowly, trying to bend her voice into the sweetest southern accent she'd never had as a native Texan. "That hit to the head must've done a number on me. But you're talking about Matt?" She asked, glancing between Jones and the photograph. "That's Matt. Two tour combat veteran in Afghanistan. He's been volunteering for me for close to six months." She met the man's gaze squarely. She wasn't sure if he was buying the dumb farm girl routine or not, but she was going to milk that angle for all it was worth.

"Try again, Ms. Ramirez." He put down another photograph, this time with James's face in the frame.

"I just told you that's Matt." She repeated adamantly.

"Of course, of course, it is," Jones answered sweetly. "And with you, that's Bill, correct? And this is Mike, and Mitchell, and Jonny and Bridge and James, and of course, I couldn't forget Suzanne." He pushed several other photographs of various volunteers and clients, each with the James just barely in the frame. "A number of them with prior's or pending legal matters. A few with children and families." A look of horror must have crossed her face because he smiled. "Yes, I thought that might rattle your memory a little bit. Of course, I've saved the best for last." He placed a photo, a recent photo of Sam on top. "You thought we wouldn't know that your husband was involved with a known associate of Captain America?" He paused for dramatic effect. "It would be a shame if we had to get anyone else involved because you were unwilling to cooperate."

She focused down on the photographs, her jaw gritted. _I'm going to die. _It wasn't so much a thought as a feeling deep in her gut. _I'm going to die, but others don't have to. _He'd just said as much. They might not spare her, but if she cooperated and gave them the information they were looking for, they wouldn't hurt anyone else. _And you're going to trust the Nazi motherfucker who has you tied to a chair?_ No. She didn't believe him, but she had to do something, didn't she? She had to at least try to do something. If she was going to die, shouldn't she go out being brave? Shouldn't she go out trying to protect those she cared about? What did she owe The Winter Soldier? Fair was fair, she'd patched him up, and he'd run off Roberts. She didn't owe that man anything. _Goddamnit, why hadn't Sam picked up his phone? _

"What do you owe this man? Your life? The life of your clients and friends? Do not throw everything you've built here away for him. Is he really worth it?" He continued.

Maggie focused down on the photo of Sam. He hadn't aged at all since the last time she'd seen him. He still had that kind expression that he always used when he was talking to people he cared about, the expression he'd used when talking to Riley, to her too. God. Why hadn't she called him as soon as James had left? Why had she given him a head start? Would they kill Sam? The Winter Soldier hadn't been able to kill him or Captain America. They had a good chance of surviving whatever Hydra threw at them, right? Was that a chance she could take? Even then. If Sam had a good chance of survival, what about the rest of them? Bill, Mike, Suzanne, and the rest? James had Molly and Steph to worry about.

Maggie took a deep breath, looking up at Jones. "I help you, you leave them alone." Her voice shook. "Right?"

"That depends on how helpful you are."

_Right._ That was the answer she needed. "I don't know anything worth your time." She said flatly.

"Oh. Come come, that's not true. You've just spent time with one of the world's most deadly operatives. I'm sure you have plenty to share," Jones smirked. "Where was he headed when he left your property this afternoon?

"I don't know," Maggie answered.

Jones said nothing but nodded to Williams, who rounded the table and stood behind her chair.

"Let's try again." He continued after a moment. "Where is he going?"

"I told you assholes, I don't know." She snapped.

Jones nodded again to Williams, who picked up the rolling pin and weighed is speculatively in her hands. It had been a wedding gift from Riley's Great-Aunt Millie. The racist bitch had called Maggie a beaner at the wedding when Good Ol' Aunt Mille had thought Maggie couldn't hear. Still, the rolling pin was expensive and heavy-duty, and unfortunately was now going to be used for something more than tortillas and pie crusts.

"I'm afraid that's not the answer we're looking for." He said. "And time really is of the essence. So if you're not going to cooperate, we're going to have to hurt you until you start giving us the answers we want."

"Then start asking me questions I know the answers to." She shot back.

"Give us something we can work with then."

Maggie rolled her eyes. This was going nowhere slowly, yet they were the ones that kept saying that this was all time-sensitive. She looked back down and focused on the photo of Sam and then back up at Jones, who watched hawkishly across the table. They'd been watching her. They knew her routine, her patterns, who was coming in and out of the Ranch. Had they been watching her since Sam had shown up on the news helping Captain America? Had Hydra herded James to her ranch and then proceeded to watch him while he recovered from whatever the hell he was tripping on? It was all too convenient that the day Roberts and his guys come out to burn the place to the ground, Hydra goons roll up and decide that she needed to be tied down and interrogated. She was being used but wasn't entirely sure _how, _and that led to so many other questions that she didn't have the time to think about.

"You are aware, studies have shown that torture is ineffective, right? Like that's a thing, you should be aware of." She said shortly. "So when I tell you that I have nothing of value to offer you, you really should just take me at my word. This is about as truthful as you're going to get for the rest of the evening."

It was the bravest thing she could think of to say. Was she being smart? No, probably not. Was she making the right decision? Again, no, probably not. But then again, the opportunity to make different choices to avoid this entire situation had already passed. Now she had to deal with the consequences of her actions.

She could still see James's expression, his bright pricing blue eyes riddled with pain and fear and anger and terror. He'd killed people, he'd murdered people for Hydra. He'd very nearly killed Captain America, it had been all over the news. But when he'd been in her barn, he'd merely been a sick, frightened man. He hadn't lifted a finger to hurt her and had done more than his fair share to help her. He wasn't the one who had her tied to a chair, prepared to torture and, in all likelihood, kill her. There was no guarantee that if she cooperated that they would stop with her. She just had to rely upon Sam to make sure her people were safe. Now her only job was to stall long enough to raise the alarm.

"Oh, I'm well aware." He motioned to Williams, who brought the rolling pin down on her left hand with a resounding 'smack.'

Maggie gasped, the impact sucking her breath away. "I don't know where he's gone." She said through gritted teeth.

Jones nodded, and Williams brought the rolling pin down again, a little harder. Maggie screamed.

"I. Don't. Know." She bit out, her eyes watering.

"Get creative, Ms. Ramirez. Context clues if you will."

"You mother fuckers think this is an English class? Like context clues are really going to-" She screamed as Williams brought the rolling pin down again. This was restraint. Maggie knew that this was restraint, and she also knew intuitively that their restraint wasn't going to last much longer. "He took a jacket." She managed after a moment.

Jones and Williams exchanged glances at one another. "See?" Jones said, voice dripping with condescension. "You are useful."

"I mean he also took some swim trunks and flip flops. Though how that arm fares in water, I couldn't say." Maggie bit out sarcastically.

Willams dragged the chair back away from the table and stepped between her and Jones. "You think this is funny?" She asked, punching Maggie first in the face and then several times in the stomach.

Maggie dry heaved, gasping for air, coughing and choking on saliva and blood.

"All right, Williams. That's enough." Jones waved her off.

"Appreciate the chivalry." Maggie drawled.

"Well. You can't very well answer our questions if your head isn't in the right place."

"Actually, I think you should hit me a couple more time, It helps me think better." It was the only thing she could do to think through the pounding in her skull and the pain shooting from her stomach and chest and arm. She'd taken worse beatings in bar fights before, only then she'd been drunk. Now she was gravely and unfortunately sober, and these assholes wouldn't even give her a bottle to smack them with.

Williams responded in kind, with several more blows around the face and to the chest and stomach. "Enough!" Jones called after a moment. Then switching into Russian dictated quick instructions to Williams.

The woman nodded and departed from the kitchen. Only after she'd gone, Jones rose and walked around the table to where Maggie was tied. He picked up the rolling pin that Williams had left and again weighed it in his hands. There was still flour dust on it from the last time she'd made tortillas. The kitchen table that wasn't covered in photos from Jones's file was littered with party supplies and extra boxes of tinfoil and Saran Wrap.

"Now. While your friend and Captain America might have dismantled SHEILD, I still have to report to my superior officers."

"Then why the fuck are you wasting your time with me?" She asked.

"You have more strategic value than you realize." He answered, before bringing down the rolling pin on top of her left hand.

"Fuck you, Fuck Hydra." She snarled, tears streaming down her face, her breath hitching in her chest as she tried to suck down air.

"You really think that we needed information from you?" Jones asked.

"Sure does seem that-" He brought the rolling pin down again before she could finish what she was saying.

This time she just screamed. The pain was white-hot and blinding, and Maggie felt light-headed. She couldn't feel her fingers, and most of her hand and wrist through the pain, never a good sign. She blinked at Jones, her vision blurry, and she could tell by the look on his that he was enjoying this. Then is it struck her. She was never a strategic intelligence target. She was _bait._ Who she was supposed to lure, and who they were looking to trap, but she, Magdalene Ramirez was going to suffer, and probably die in a pointless attempt to either capture the Winter Soldier or kill Sam and Captain America.

In the end, she was just going to be collateral damage. This was going to be all for nothing. _What else is new?_ She hadn't done anything that had mattered. She couldn't save the Ranch, she couldn't help the people she was supposed to be supporting and helping, she couldn't save her relationship with Sam, hell she couldn't even save herself.

"Ahh. See now you're starting to get it." Jones smiled.

"He's not going to let you take him, and Sam Wilson and Captain America are going to make sure you pay for this." Maggie managed weakly. It was the best she could come up with. "In the end, you're just going to lose."

"We'll see." He said, bringing the rolling pin down on her wrist, just below the joint.

Maggie screamed, the pain overwhelming. Then, there was the smell of smoke that started to fill the air and choked her lungs. Her vision blurred, tunneling as she tried to focus on the smug grin of the man who loomed over her.

_This is it. This is how it's going to end. _She realized. She wasn't sure how she should feel. Relief? Anger? Resignation? _I did everything that I could. There isn't anything else I could've done. _It was a pallid reassurance.

_Mags. Mags you have to come down, you're going to fall. _

She jerked her head up, glancing around the now empty kitchen, which was rapidly filling with smoke. "Riley?" She gasped out.

_I'm here, Mags. I'm here, but you have to stay with me._

"I want to stay with you."

_I'm not going anywhere. You're going to be okay. It's okay. None of this is your fault. It's okay._

Maggie smiled, a wave of euphoria or relief washed over her. As if a weight was being lifted off her shoulders. She was done, it was over, and there was nothing she could do about it. She exhaled slowly and welcomed the darkness as unconsciousness took her.

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I hope you all enjoyed this chapter! I know it was a rough one! Next time we get a little bit of resolution (And some answers)! Let me know what you think! As always R&R!


	12. The Pain of Choices Made

Author's Note: Marvel owns what it owns, and I own what I own, let's keep it that way shall we? Don't Sue me!

A/N 2: Oh my gosh you guys. I have to say I've loved all of the very strong reactions you've had to chapter 11. Yes, Hydra Nazi scum are the worst, and I would be a liar if I said your responses have me cackling.

Recommended Listening: "Bridge over Troubled Water" by Simon & Garfunkel; "September" by Earth Wind and Fire; "Get Lucky" by Daft Punk.

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Chapter 12: The Pain of Choices Made

James had tried to keep his mind off it. He'd managed to make it to Montreal overnight and was now in the process of securing passage overseas. Yet still, his mind wandered back, and wondered, had Wilson and Rogers made it in time? Had Ramirez called them at all? Had Hydra overlooked or ignored Ramirez all together? He needed to find out.

He pulled his jacket closer as he entered the library and headed for an unoccupied computer. Pulling off his right glove, logged on, and opened a web browser. _Do I want to do this?_ He wondered as he typed in Last Chance Ranch, Magdalen Ramirez into the search bar. He paused, the mouse hovered over 'search.' _What would it change if I knew? It's too late to do anything. _

He knew he needed to find out. That he needed to know. That he needed closure on this one thing. He clicked search and held his breath, waiting for the page to load.

And then he had his answer. "Local Veteran Community Mourns loss of Equine Therapy Ranch Owner to House Fire."

He clicked on the link, reading through the news report. _The local veteran community is mourning today after a house fire claimed the life of thirty-year-old Magdalene Ramirez-Underdahl, the founder and owner of Last Chance Ranch...Firefighters responded to reports of a fire on the property at 8:00pm Saturday night...Underdahl was the only one home at the time of the fire...clients and volunteers in shock and looking for answers...Authorities believe the cause of the fire was electrical and classified as non-criminal..._

_They killed her? _No. It couldn't be. It was a lie. It had to be. There was no other explanation. _I told her to call Wilson. Wilson should have been able to protect her. She's not dead, she can't be. _It was a lie, a fabrication, a ruse either by Hydra or by Wilson and Rogers.

He clicked on the video in the article and watched as Davidson, Suzanne, and Mike were interviewed. The pain in their voices was palpable, their eyes red and puffy. All of them saying in their various ways, _we don't understand._

He paused the video looking at Davidson's face, the pure anguish, and anger, and despair in the man's features.

It was true. Or at the very least, it was true to Davidson, Suzanne, and Mike, and it would be true to the volunteers and clients of Last Chance Ranch. Magdalene Ramirez was dead, and it was his fault.

_The best thing you could do for her is leave._ That's what the old man had said. That's what he'd done.

He exited the news site and went a few hits down to the Ranch's website. The home page was simply her photo, her date of birth and date of death below. Below the picture, all that was stated was "Date and time of memorial service TBD, check back for updates."

He closed out of the webpage and logged off, starring at the blank screen as his brain processed what he'd just seen. She was dead, and she was dead because of him.

_Better her than me. _

The thought bit out before he could retract it. He winced, and he glanced down at his right shoulder, where she had patched him up. _She helped you, and you left her for dead._

Regardless of what had happened, of who had pulled the trigger, there was one absolute truth, her blood, Magdalen Ramirez's blood was on his hands. _I didn't have a choice._ But he had, he knew he had. She'd given him a choice, an option. He could've stayed, he could've turned himself over to Rogers and Wilson.

_Or Hydra could've gotten hold of you, and then where would you be? _Could he have reasonably staked one life over the life of all of those Hydra would've forced him to take?

_But it isn't just one life, is it?_

All those people at the cookout. All the people that he'd seen come in and out of the barn, and in and out of the ranch. They were connected through Ramirez. What would they do now that she was gone? Where would they go? Would they find another place to receive treatment? What would happen to the ranch? She'd just admitted they were weeks away from foreclosure. Did that mean that Roberts would get her land?

_You don_' _t get to ask those questions, you let her die._

He reached down to his bag and opened the front zipper. Removing the journal and the pen Ramirez had given him, cracked open the front cover, flipped a few pages, and slowly wrote out her name. Magdalene Ramirez, 11/11/1984-04/28/2014, cause of death: Fire.

He paused, something in his stomach twisting as Ramirez's words to James that day in the barn came back to him. What was it that she had said? No one wakes up good or bad, but it's their choices that define them? It was the choices, she said, that defined the person. That every choice, every action mattered?

_Our past doesn't define us, but our choices now and today help shape our tomorrow._

He shook his head, and closed the journal with a snap, stowing it away. He didn't have time for this. No time to think about what had happened, or what it meant. Hydra was still after him, still on his tail. Her death would mean nothing if Hydra caught him. That was his rationale, and nothing else mattered. There wasn't a choice. There was only survival, no matter the cost.

In the end, it didn't matter if James Barnes was a good or a bad person, and it would matter even less if Hydra caught him.

He rose, walking from the library and out into the overcast Montreal afternoon.

Magdalene Ramirez was dead. Dead on arrival, according to the paperwork, with smoke inhalation listed as the cause of death on the death certificate. This was why an "Ana Sanchez" sat in one of the rooms of the county hospital with guards outside, eating orange jello, left arm in traction, right eye swollen shut proofreading the eulogy Sam Wilson was going to read at Magdalene's memorial service.

Maggie hummed along to "September" as it played over the Bluetooth speaker, trying to focus on anything but the reality that was crushing in around her. She was legally dead, her business, home, and most of her earthly possessions were gone, burned to the ground. Yet somehow that was the least of her worries. She had at least another surgery and a whole bunch of PT to look forward to, _and_ she had to find a new place to live and a job with her new 'identity.' Oh, and Hydra Science Nazis were looking for her so she could give them a lead on where the Winter Soldier had gone.

Maggie paused at the sensation of someone standing just out of her field of vision. "Come in, Captain." She commented dryly, looking up from the page she was reading to the man hovering in the doorway.

"Is Sam here?"

"No." She said flatly.

"Oh." He glanced around, a frown creasing his expression. "He asked me to bring him coffee."

"That was me," Maggie replied, returning her gaze to the page she'd been reading. "He's out getting me food since I refuse to subsist on the sodium-free, sugar-free, and flavor-free garbage they've been feeding me here, particularly if I'm editing my own eulogy." She commented. Setting down the pen, she picked up the orange jello cup and slurped down one of the large chunks.

"Did...did you need something, Ms. Ramirez?" He stammered.

Maggie looked up at him, surveying him carefully. He didn't _look_ like Captain America. Well, he did in the way that all tall beefy men with broad shoulders, skinny waists, and blonde hair looked like Captain America. The man standing in front of her wasn't Captain America. There was no bravado, no confidence, in fact, he looked like he wanted to disappear in a hole in the floor, or through the window, both of which Maggie was quite confident he could accommodate. "Coffee." She cracked a small smile. "And a bit of your time."

"Of course," He nodded, approaching the bed hesitantly, handed her the coffee and returned to standing at the foot of the bed.

He watched her as she took a small sip. It was Dunkin' coffee, so it was bitter and slightly burnt, but it would do the job in a pinch.

"You really should sit down, Steve," She paused. "Or do you prefer that I call you Captain?" She inquired.

"Steve is fine." He answered.

"Cool. Cool. Sit down, take a load off." She said taking another sip of coffee. "And thank you for the caffeine. My head is killing me."

Easing down into one of the stiff, uncomfortable hospital visitors chairs, he surveyed her carefully. He was trying to figure her out, trying to figure out what kind of person she was. "How are you-"

"Don't." She interrupted shortly.

"Sorry." He replied, almost bashfully as he took a sip of his coffee.

"It's... it's fine." Maggie exhaled slowly, "I mean, do you want a real answer, or do you want me to lie to make you feel better?" She asked. It wasn't a nice thing to say. The Winter Soldier had put Him in the hospital too, but he hadn't had his life quite literally burned to the ground. So fair was fair.

He didn't say anything. _Shit._ Maggie chewed the inside of her mouth. "I'm sorry. You're not exactly catching me at my best."

"Understandably so."

"It's unfortunate. I don't normally meet people under the best of circumstances."

"Sam tells me you're a therapist."

"I was. yes."

"Right."

Poor bastard. She couldn't help but almost feel sorry for the guy. Almost. "I promise I didn't lure you here just so you could bring me coffee. I did want to talk to you without Sam around." She paused, choosing her words carefully. "I'm sorry that we're meeting under these circumstances, Captain. My husband was a huge fan of yours." She paused, watching as the star-spangled man with a plan retreated further inside himself, shoulders hunching as if he hoped he'd be able to fold himself up and disappear entirely. "But that's not why I wanted to talk with you." Maggie took a deep breath. "Who is he? The Winter Soldier?"

Steve lowered his gaze and looked away as if trying to summon the will, summon the energy to be able to form the words.

"I'm not asking because I'm angry. But before I say what I'm going to say next. I _need_ to know the truth. The Winter Soldier isn't just an operative. He's your friend, James Barnes, isn't he?"

Steve snapped his head up, looking at her with wide eyes, hope, fear, terror, and surprise crossing his face all at once "How'd you-"

"I'm not a complete idiot. And I've been putting the pieces together since I woke up. He told me his name was James, Hydra showed me an old black and white photo, you're here and hovering, and Sam was and has been particularly evasive about the entire thing since this whole thing started." She explained slowly. "Plus, you have a shit poker face," Maggie added.

Steve exhaled slowly, nodding, "Fair."

"I want to help you find him."

The statement caught Steve off guard, and he opened and closed his mouth a few times as he tried to come up with something to say. "Ms. Ramirez I can-"

"I'm not asking permission. I'm telling you I want to help you find him."

"Why?"

Maggie hesitated. What was she supposed to say? If she was honest, she was being selfish. Tracking down the Winter Soldier was one step in trying to get her life back. She'd been declared dead because she was a security threat. If Hydra thought she was still alive, they'd keep coming after her. If the Winter Soldier was found it might ease some of that. It wasn't a guarantee that she'd get her life back, but it would be a start. She couldn't tell Captain America that it wasn't nearly noble enough for the likes of him. "I want answers, and I want closure," Maggie answered finally. "And I want all of this," She glanced meaningfully at her arm. "To have meant something."

"I couldn't-"

She raised an eyebrow and he faltered into silence. "Steve. You're not asking anything of me. I'm volunteering. I've got nothing but time. And let's be perfectly real, I'm doing you a favor. I'm one of the few non-hostile parties who's spent any time with him." Maggie paused. "You need me, Rogers."

Steve nodded thoughtfully. "Is this why you wanted to talk with me while Sam was out?"

"Possibly." She took another sip of coffee.

"He's not going to like this."

"Is that supposed to be a deterrent?" Maggie snorted. "He's not the boss of me. He's never been the boss of me. Besides, I have plenty of shit I could hold over his head that _I _don't like that he's involved with. You, for instance."

Steve looked taken aback. "Me?"

"He was out, learning to live his life after losing his wingman, his partner, a man whom we both loved dearly. Then somehow you drag him back into that shit? He must have a pretty damn good reason. So do I."

"In my defense, he volunteered," Steve said slowly.

"Oh, I have no doubt. You don't seem like the kind of guy to impress people into service. Maybe a light guilt trip every now and again, but nothing too harsh." She answered setting down her coffee reached over and opened the drawer of the side table. "And so am I. Volunteering, I mean." She removed a legal pad she'd been working through and extended it to him.

"What is it?" He asked uncertainly as he took it.

"I've had trouble sleeping." She said as if that explained the nearly twenty pages of meticulously written notes. "I...uhh...took the liberty of working up a preliminary psychological evaluation of Barnes based on my observations while it was still fresh." Maggie paused, watching as he flipped through the pad, his eyes scanning the pages with intense focus.

"So..." She began after a moment. "When do I start?"

"I think you already have, Ms. Ramirez," Steve said, looking up at her.

"Maggie." She extended her hand to him.

"Steve." He said, taking it.

"A pleasure." She smiled, shaking hands with him.

"Ummm." They both glanced over at the doorway to see Sam standing there, looking back and forth between them, McDonald's bag in hand. "Do I wanna know?"

"No." She answered, dropping Steve's hand. "Did you get my food?"

"Just the way you like it." He set the bag down in her lap, kissing the top of her head.

"Thanks, Sammie. You're the best." She said before rifling through the contents of the paper sack.

Sam watched her carefully, glancing between her and Steve, trying to work an equation out in his head. Then something crossed his expression. Was it sadness? Anger? Frustration? Concern? Or was it resignation? Maggie didn't know, but she knew that Sam knew she was going to help them track down the Winter Soldier. Perhaps more importantly, Sam knew that he had absolutely no say in it whatsoever.

To be fair, she hadn't had a say in it either. A half-dead man stumbling onto her property, what was she supposed to do? Call the cops? And anyway, being a Good Samaritan didn't mean you invited Nazis to come and knock down your door, torture you, and set your house ablaze.

Well, it didn't matter now. It was gone. It was all gone. Her ranch was gone. Her house. Her barn. Her life and the life that she had planned with Riley and Sam in all of its various forms and trappings was gone, and there was nothing she could do about it.

So she was going to get it back, or what little of her life was left that she could get back. And so at the moment, that meant she had to track down James Barnes. No matter the cost, no matter the consequences, he was the first step to going home, and so she would help Sam and Steve track him to the ends of the earth and beyond if that's what it took. After all, she was _technically_ dead. What more did she possibly have to lose?

* * *

As always! I hope you enjoyed! Please R&R! Happy Reading!

A/N: As an aside, I promise the horses are okay! (spoiler: they're re-homed with the exception of Shadow and Ghost who are staying with Suzanne).


	13. When Flying is Just Falling

Author's Notes: Marvel owns what it owns, and I own what I own, let's keep it that way shall we? Don't Sue me!

Recommended Listening: Bohemian Rhapsody by Queen, Yellow Ledbetter by Pearl Jam, and Under the Bridge by Red Hot Chili Peppers

Enjoy!

* * *

Ch 13: When Flying is Just Falling

_She was flying, her body weightless and nimble as she soared through the clear blue sky. The wind washed around her warm and sweet. Higher and higher she soared, feeling the exhilaration of the height and speed and breathless delight. "Come down, Mags."_

_She paused, looking around. "Riley?" _

_"Come down, Mags." _

_"Riley? Riley? Where are you?" She looked down. Below, far below her, he was there. He was there at the ranch. At their ranch, by the barn looking up at her, his face bent in worry and care._

_"Mags...Mags please we don't have much time." Riley called. He was wearing his fatigues, his bags were packed. He was leaving, he was leaving for his deployment. "Mags, we don't have much time." _

_"Riley." Her voice was swept away by the wind. _

_And now she could smell the smoke. The wind turned hot, smoke rising in the air, billowing in thick black coils around her, choking her lungs, making her eyes sting. She looked down the barn was on fire, the horses were screaming, trying to break out of their stalls. She looked to her wings, they were on fire. Pain. Pain seared through her hands up into her arms and spread all over her body._

_And she was back in the kitchen._

_Smoke, smoke was everywhere. Filling the kitchen, and her lungs, making her eyes sting and her chest ache as she tried to catch her breath. She couldn't move. She was tied down. She wriggled her right hand and wrist, trying to wrench free from the zip ties. Her left hand and wrist were swelling rapidly, the zip ties pinching and cutting into her skin._

_Out of the corner of her eye, she could see him. Matt…James…The Winter Soldier. Just standing there, watching her as she struggled. 'Help me!' She tried to scream, but it came out in a muted, almost hoarse whisper. 'Help!'_

_He stood there, motionless, those piercing blue eyes boring holes into her as flames lapped at the support beams and studs of the kitchen. She could hear crashing around her, things sparking and snapping and collapsing as the fire consumed them, consumed her life._

_'H_ _elp me!' She tried again, her voice choked by the smoke, her head spinning, vision blurring._

_'Mags! Mag's we're coming!' Sam rushed in, followed by Steve, but stopped before they could cut her from the chair. "Where is he?" Steve asked gravely._

_"He's right there!" She tried to scream. "Please help me." Her voice was trapped, caught in her throat._

_They glanced back where she had motioned, but he was gone. "Mags, where did he go?"_

_'Where did he go?'_

_Where did he go?'_

_'Where did he go?'_

_Their voices echoed a thousand times, as the smoke and flames overtook her, as she tried to free herself, her voice muffled even as she screamed, screamed for someone to hear her, screamed for someone to free her, to rescue her._

_Then there was nothing but darkness as the voices continued. 'Where did he go? Where did he go?'_

Maggie Ramirez jerked awake. Heart pounding, chest heaving, she gulped down air, tears streaming down her face as she tried to ground herself in space and time. She wasn't at the ranch, she wasn't suffocating, she wasn't tied to a chair, Hydra wasn't actively trying to kill her at the moment. She was safe on the 82nd floor of the Stark Tower.

Barely fighting back sobs, she wiped at her face with the right sleeve of her hoodie and yanked off her headphones, the Russian language podcast still playing seeping into the otherwise quiet office. She glanced around. It was all here still. The office with the grubby, stained, lumpy second-hand couch, suspiciously IKEA looking desk, bookshelves and work tables, the large world map she'd plastered on the wall. The stack of language software and the various files and Intel that Sam had collected. All of it still there.

Her whole body still shaking, Maggie sighed, sitting up, adjusting the sling around her neck, and cleared away the Russian textbook and Russian-English dictionary off her lap, and the photocopied documents she'd been working through.

It had been a month since Hydra had come, tortured her, burned her home to the ground, and she'd only narrowly escaped death thanks to Sam Wilson. It had been six weeks, nearly to the day since James Barnes had stumbled onto her property and into her life. One month since her world had ended and she'd agreed to help them track down the man partially responsible for the collapse of her life. One month and they were going nowhere slowly. Maggie turned, glancing over the back of the couch to the massive world map she'd plastered to the wall. Two red pins stuck into the east coast, the only known and confirmed sightings of James Barnes. There were orange pins, white pins, and green pins scattered around the world: points of interest, possible leads, known safe houses. There were also the dreaded black pins, which indicated dead ends. The black pins were starting to become more numerous than Maggie cared to think, while the red pins remained fixed: Washington D.C. and Last Chance Ranch.

Stark had offered her more technologically advanced methods, but she liked her pins in the wall map. She'd let Sam and Steve work with technology. She was going to work this problem the old fashioned way. Which was why she'd fallen asleep on the lumpy second-hand sofa she'd bought of craigslist, trying to brush up on her Russian so she could work through the files on the Winter Soldier. _Why couldn't he have been held hostage by the Mexican cartels or ANY number of Spanish speaking countries it would make this whole thing so much easier._

There was a soft buzz, and Maggie pulled her phone from her hoodie pocket and read the message that had just appeared. _Morning brief at your place in ten._

"Thanks, Sammie," She moaned, pulling herself up off the couch, and padded her way to the kitchen. A magnificent, multi-million dollar view of the Manhattan skyline greeted her from the floor to ceiling windows, the sun shining in. "Fuck off." She muttered as she started putting together coffee in the glass percolator.

She and Sam had been given the keys to the apartment and free access to the Avengers facilities. Free of charge, which was pretty generous of Tony Stark. _Consider it a perk._ At least that's what Sam had said. Personally, Maggie wondered what Steve had told Stark to convince him to let this random nobody move in without so much as paying a cent in a deposit. Then again, this _was_ Captain America they were talking about. The man could read his grocery list by way of a motivational speech, and people would still follow him to the gate of hell and back. It probably hadn't taken much in the way of arm twisting.

However, oddly enough, since she'd arrived at the tower, he'd been very firmly _Steve._ He'd helped her move in her few remaining personal possessions from the fire, and even lugged the aforementioned lumpy sofa into the apartment for her. He'd invited her to dinner with the team, and helped her with her groceries, and had just been an all-around _regular_ dude. Well, as regular as a dude from the 1940s could be when they were tracking down a man also from the 1940s who'd been trained by a Nazi organization to destabilize and destroy the world order as they knew it. Oh, and of course, this was the same man who'd also spent nearly two weeks hanging out on her ranch while hiding out from said Nazi organization. It was a lot to swallow.

Maggie wound her hair into a messy bun, managing to stick a pen to secure it using only one hand before pulling out three mugs. "Come in! It's unlocked!" She called over her shoulder as the intercom buzzed. "You take your coffee black right?"

"Ma'am." Maggie glanced up into the big earnest face of Steve Rogers, Sam trailing behind him.

"Steven." She cracked a small smile as she extended a steaming mug to him.

He took it carefully and nodded graciously.

"Same-same Sam?" She inquired, turning back to the stove.

"Yeah," Sam answered.

"How was your trip from Moscow?" She asked pleasantly, handing over his mug of coffee before pouring one for herself.

"Well, we have another place our guy _isn't_," Sam said with a heavy sigh.

"Another black pin, huh?" Maggie commented taking a sip of the coffee. It was black and slightly burnt, but it eased the pounding in her head slightly. "Let's adjourn to the office, and we can go over our next move." She said, motioning for the two men to follow.

Moscow was a little too on the nose. When they found Barnes, it wouldn't be somewhere like that. But that hadn't been her call to make. Steve had wanted to check, and so Sam had gone. "Did you find anything interesting? Hydra files?" Maggie inquired as she sunk down behind her desk and watched as Steve and Sam sat down on her lumpy, ugly sofa.

"Man. I can't believe Stark let you drag this thing into his multi-million dollar apartment." Sam scoffed, as he surveyed one of the stains on a fraying cushion.

"Stark didn't _let_ me do anything. I wanted a couch, and I wasn't about to spend five GRAND on the one that you wanted from restoration hardware. Do not disrespect my couch Sam Wilson or next time you can sit your ass on the floor." Maggie rolled her eyes. "ANYWAY." She said, picking up a black pin from her desk and extended it to Steve. "If you'd do the honors Cap'?"

He rose and accepted the pin, pushing it forcefully into Moscow while She and Sam watched in silence. Steve made his way back over to the couch and sunk down before Sam spoke again. "How's the Russian coming along?"

"Slowly. The language programs Stark gave me access to have been excellent but, still taking me some time since I'm working several at once." She answered, picking up a bottle of pills and fiddling with the Cap.

"Romanoff could help you if you wanted. She's back stateside for the moment." Steve suggested.

Maggie paled. She'd seen the super-spy around, but they hadn't interacted, and Maggie wasn't sure she would ever be ready to do so. The woman had a _presence. _She was beautiful, and graceful, and terrifying in the way that most talented and deadly women were, and Maggie found that she was not prepared to interact with that in her current state of somewhere between a potato and walking grease stain. "I'm sure she has other more important _Avenger-y _things to be looking after than tutoring me." Maggie stammered out. "So." She continued clearing her throat. "What's our next move, Steve?"

They talked strategy and options, and Maggie took notes in the journal she'd started. Sam handed over and talked through the files he'd collected. Their meeting was cut short by Steve, who was called upstairs to talk Avengers business, and they adjourned their official business.

"So what you doing for lunch?" Sam asked as the front door closed behind Steve.

"Hadn't thought about it." Maggie said, booting up her computer.

"Have you been sleeping all right?"

"Not really."

"You should probably talk to someone about that."

"Can't mix pain meds and sleep meds, Sam, though frankly, I'd rather be able to drink again than have to deal with either." She replied.

"You know I wasn't talking about that." Sam said.

"I didn't think you cared."

"Of course, I care, Mags."

Maggie snorted, rolling her eyes. She really didn't want to have this conversation again. They'd gone round and round about that when she'd first arrived. Mostly about the ranch and about money when he'd been settling her affairs. He'd wanted to know why she hadn't asked him for help. Why she'd allowed the bills to stack up. Why she hadn't reached out to him. Fortunately, the ranch was in a trust now and being looked after. Not that it mattered, they weren't going to be able to find anyone to run the ranch. Sam had been able to convince Suzanne to re-home a majority of her horses, with the exceptions of Shadow and Ghost, who would stay with Suzanne. She should've been pleased, she wanted to be pleased, but instead, she was just angry: angry at Hydra, angry at Roberts, angry at Barnes, and even to some degree angry at Sam. This wasn't fair, none of this was fair. She was lucky to be alive, sure, but at what cost?

"What?" Sam asked.

"Nothing." She shook her head.

"You been having that dream again?"

"What dream?" Maggie asked blandly as she rose to her feet and walked back toward the kitchen.

"The flying dream you said you were having in the hospital." Sam replied, following behind her.

"Nope." Maggie shook her head, dumping out the stale coffee and returning the percolator to the stovetop.

"You wanna come have lunch with me?"

"Nope."

"Do you plan on having lunch?" Sam pushed.

"Grilled cheese." She answered. "And you're not my nanny Sam. You know that you're not responsible for me." Maggie bit out, with a little more venom than she'd intended. She could still see Sam's picture on the table, the one that Hydra had threatened her with. He didn't know, and she would take it to her grave, even if it rotted her from within. He was just as responsible as the Winter Soldier for Hydra coming and burning down her house, her barn, and her life. Only worse than the Winter Soldier, Sam had had a choice. He could've stayed on the ranch, he could've come and helped her at any time only he hadn't, and now they were here.

"When was the last time you left the apartment?" Sam asked.

"I dunno." Maggie shook her head as she placed a skillet on the stovetop and started assembling her grilled cheese.

"You really should let me take you to lunch." Sam said.

"I have work to do."

"Mags, you've been basically working non-stop since you got here. You can take a break, you know. This doesn't have to be your whole life. It _shouldn't _be your whole life."

Maggie didn't know what to say. Or rather she knew what she wanted to say but knew that wouldn't go over well. It would result in another fight, which was something her aching head didn't really want to deal with at the moment. The truth of it was this, she didn't have a life. _This_ was her life for the foreseeable future, and until they found Barnes, she wasn't going to stop. She couldn't. She wanted to get her life back, she wanted to be back at that musty old farmhouse, with the leaky barn, and with bills up to her eyeballs rather than be stuck here. The ranch by the end had been a prison, a trap of her own making. At least it was home, as compared to this. So if running herself into the ground until they found Barnes was what it took, then so be it. Sam wouldn't understand. Sam had volunteered, Sam could walk away at any point, that option just wasn't available to her.

"I haven't washed my hair in a bit. It would take way too long to get ready." She said putting a slice of buttered bread on the skillet. "Seriously, Sam. You just got off the plane from Moscow a few hours ago. You're probably exhausted. You don't have to worry about me."

"Maybe I should be." Sam said, walking up beside her and starting assembling a sandwich. They worked in silence a moment, and Maggie could feel Sam trying to come up with something to say. She really had to hand it to Sam, he was way more thoughtful than she could ever be when it came to their interpersonal communication. "So, what do you think he's up to?"

"Who?" Maggie stopped and looked up at Sam, brows furrowed.

"You've spent the most time with our guy, and have spent the last month trying to get inside his head. What do you think he's doing when he's not, yanno, avoiding us?"

Maggie snorted, shaking her head. "I'm not trying to get inside his head. You know that's not what I'm doing."

"So what do you think he's up to? Based on your observations and the date you've collected." Sam commented, gently moving her aside, he took the spatula from her and flipped her grilled cheese in the pan.

"Oh. I dunno." She winced as she climbed up and sat down on the counter, watching Sam from an elevated perch. "To be honest, I hadn't thought about it like that."

"Well, perhaps you should," Sam said. "Might help," He shrugged.

"Might help what?"

"Help you find him. I mean, you were the one who let him sleep in the barn for two weeks before you knew who he was. Knowing that he's the Winter Soldier didn't change _that _much, did it?"

"I think it was the torture and 'dying' that might have changed my perspective about the man we're looking for a little bit." She answered dryly.

"You like your sandwich cut diagonally right, or has that preference changed?" Sam questioned.

"Yes. Triangles."

He cut the sandwich, plated it, and handed it to her, placing his sandwich in the pan. "It might help us find him if you can imagine him as a person, Mags."

"I know he's a person." She said with a mouthful of sandwich. Maggie chewed and swallowed. "He's just a person who tried to kill you twice to three times and is part of the reason that I'm sitting here."

"Okay. So what can you imagine that person is doing right now?" Sam pushed.

Maggie rolled his eyes. "I dunno." She took another bite of her sandwich. Sam wasn't wrong. He was never wrong. Maybe she was approaching this whole thing wrong. She'd stripped Barnes down to essentials, down to the behaviors he'd exhibited, rather than who he was as a person. But how could she possibly know that? Other than taking a wild guess. She exhaled slowly. "I really don't know, Sam."

"Maybe you should figure that out, it might help you with this thing." He paused, taking a bite of his sandwich he chewed slowly before swallowing. "In the meantime, we have to do something about your hair."

"You're a jerk."

"Nah, dude, it's just gross."

"Thanks, Sammie."

"Come on, Mags, let me help you with your hair. Please, if just for hygiene's sake, your hair is getting nasty."

She stuck out her tongue, taking another bite of the sandwich, she couldn't help but giggle. Sam smiled. It felt good. Just the two of them, together, laughing, almost like the old days.

Sam's phone beeped, and just like that, the moment was gone. "Have to run an errand for Steve. I'll be back in a little while." Sam said, biting his sandwich put the plate in the dishwasher. "I'll be back later, and we _will_ deal with your hair then." He commented after he'd removed the sandwich from his mouth.

"If you try to take a pair of scissors to my hair, I won't be the only one down a hand." She said gravely, sliding gingerly off the countertop.

"Thought hadn't even occurred," he said, planting a soft kiss on her on the forehead. "You're salty."

"It's all the cheese you just consumed, Wilson."

"Well. Whatever the case. Have an answer to my question when I get back."

"Right. That." She rolled her eyes. "Where ever Barnes is, he isn't dealing with you and your bullshit."

"That's a feature, not a flaw, Magdalene," Sam said as they walked toward the door.

"Whatever."

"Whatever yourself!"

"Just go run your errand for Cap,' you ass."

"Love you too!" He shot as the door shut behind him.

Maggie chuckled, shaking her head. She turned to the office, to the stack of files, to the computer, and wall map, and language books, and the gross stained couch. "Okay, Barnes." She sighed, rubbing her face with her good hand. "If I where you, what would I be doing right now?" Maggie asked the silence of the flat. "Yeah." She groaned, sinking back down on the couch, resting her head on one of the cushions, she closed her eyes. "That's what I thought, too."

* * *

It had been over a month since the events on Last Chance, almost two months since he'd escaped Hydra, and about three days since his last "unpleasant" incident. Or had it been longer? He couldn't remember. He hadn't been sleeping well, or at all, it was hard to tell. His brain was too loud, two lifetimes of information and memories waring for dominance, for control What was real and what was an echo of a hydra implanted memory he couldn't quite make out, but it was in his head and making things difficult. He was writing everything down just like Ra…just like the woman had suggested, but that was only doing so much. Which is why he was out late, walking the damp empty streets. He'd been craving something sweet and salty, so he'd gone to the little shop on the corner to grab some chips and a chocolate bar. He'd gone to the park and eaten his snacks and was now walking back to the safe house. He'd be leaving in the morning, he had to keep moving, he couldn't linger long.

Then something clicked in his brain, almost like a sixth sense. He was being followed, and they were closing fast. His eyes darted around, looking for a strategic exit, witnesses, security cameras, anything, and everything that might prevent being compromised or captured. Then the man trailing him walked past, and it was then that he saw the man's actual mark.

_Shit._

Somehow this was worse. He wasn't the garget, it was the woman walking ten yards or so ahead of them. She picked up her pace, and the man filling her matched paced to overtake her. James veered off right, his mind screaming even as he did. _Stay out of this. Don't get involved. _His brain screamed, followed by. _If you do nothing-_ He scaled the building and looked down, keeping pace as he jumped with ease from rooftop to rooftop.

The man was calling after her, speaking in increasingly raised tones, trying to get the woman's attention. She'd quickened her pace, nearing a jog, her hands out of sight, likely curled around keys or a weapon of some kind.

_She'll probably be fine._ He reasoned, trying to find some way out of his present course of action. _Just like Wilson should have been able to get to Ra- the woman before Hydra did? _

He silently swore at himself, but he knew he didn't have a choice. If he did nothing and something happened, it would be his fault. He wished he could ignore it, and he hated that both parts of his mind were even having this debate.

Before he could talk himself out of whatever he was going to do, he jumped from the roof into the alley wan and then walked out into the street, just as the man grabbed the woman's arm.

She turned, a look of sheer terror on her face, which was only matched and surpassed by the look on the man's face when James grabbed his arm.

"Let. Her. Go." He bit out in a near growl. "Now." He ordered as he squeezed the man's arm, probably harder than necessary.

The man let go of the woman's arm, and James jerked him bodily away from her, putting himself between the stalker and his mark, before shoving the man away. The man stumbled back and fell, scrabbling to his feet, and darting away as fast he could manage.

James watched him go, only vaguely aware that the woman was still standing behind him frozen in place. He turned, slowly, and found that she wasn't a woman, she was a child, a girl, no more than sixteen. She looked up at him with big blue eyes, wide with fear, already welling with tears. He took two steps back, hands up in a way that he hoped was non-threatening, or less threatening rather. "You okay?" He managed after a moment

She nodded.

"There's a shop that's open two blocks that way." He motioned. "Call someone to come pick you up, you shouldn't be out this late on your own." He said shortly, turning he started walking back the opposite direction.

"Thank you." She called weakly.

He paused a moment before he continued down the road. His mind spun. _You shouldn't have let her see you, you shouldn't have gotten involved. _Yet there was something familiar about the action, about the girl, something that had happened not a month ago at Last Chance Ranch, but a long, long time ago, before the war, before the soldier. A name formed on his lips, but he didn't speak it into existence. He couldn't. Not here, not now. It would open up too many wounds, and he had too much to do.

James shook his head. Zero days since the last incident, and now he had to move.

* * *

A/N I hope you enjoyed! Thanks for reading! Love to hear from you, what you thought, what you think, favorite moments, and all that jazz. Remember to R&R And until next time, Happy Reading!


	14. Tacos and Old Photographs

Author's Notes: Marvel owns what it owns, and I own what I own, let's keep it that way shall we? Don't Sue me!

Recommended Listening: Smile by Nat King Cole, You Learn By Alanis Morissette, Counting Stars by One Republic

* * *

Chapter 14: Tacos and Old Photographs

Maggie was having a hard time sleeping. To be fair, she'd been having issues sleeping long before Hydra had tried to burn her alive inside her own house, but it was sufficient to say that Hydra certainly hadn't helped the matter. Which was why she was lying on the couch staring up at the ceiling. The pain meds helped her sleep but gave her nightmares, or worse nightmares, so rather than braving the bizarre and horrible dreams, she opted for her whole body hurting. Her wrist was well on its way to healing, her hand, however, would take a bit more. Dexterity, strength, sensation, it was likely she would never regain full function of her hand, never mind the ugly surgery scars that would serve as a constant reminder. It was still unclear how bad it was going to be, only time and physical therapy would tell.

She adjusted on the couch, wincing as she did.

It was this time of night that was the most difficult. It was when she missed the ranch, missed Riley, missed her life the most. During the day it was easy. She had plenty to keep herself occupied with, learning several languages, following leads, following up with Sam and Steve about progress or lack thereof. However, while it filled and occupied her time, it wasn't a draining or exhausting kind of work, which meant that her mind was racing, filled with more information than it could process. On top of the heap was Sam's question. It had been there, festering silently since he'd asked it, almost a week ago. _What do you think he's up to when he's not avoiding us?_

It was a simple question, which was why it was so damn infuriating that she didn't have a damn answer. And she didn't have the first clue as to how even to begin to start to answer it. What was perhaps even worse was that Sam was right. She'd somehow managed to distill her time with Barnes down to its bare essentials, to the point that she had no idea how to conceptualize him as a person, as a man. How could she? He'd barely been human when she'd found him in her barn, and while they'd had all of two and a half conversations, _real_ conversations, it didn't leave much for her to imagine him as an individual, as someone who had any motivations or desires beyond simple survival. That's what she'd seen that first day in the barn, and that last day in the outbuilding. Everything in between was just _blurry_.

_How is that supposed to help anything? How is that going to help you get home? _

Maggie reached for the chain around her neck, strung with two wedding bands. _I'm going to fix this. I can fix this._

But what if she couldn't? That thought plagued her and clouded her mind. _You're dead, remember? You've already failed everyone. There's no way you can make this right. You've done nothing but fail, done nothing but screw everything up._

"Nope." Maggie sat up. "No. No. No." She rose, staggering to her feet, dressed and pulled on her running shoes, and walked up the ten flights of stairs to the private gym. If her brain wasn't going to shut itself down, she was going to do a hard reset.

The gymnasium was state of the art, nothing less than she'd expect from a Stark facility. And since it was nearly three in the morning, Maggie had the place entirely to herself. Walking around the indoor track several times, she worked her way up into a jog. It was a nice release. She couldn't go much faster than a jog because she didn't want to jostle her hand and arm, but it was nice to work off some of her excess energy.

Pausing to attempt to tie her shoe, Maggie realized she wasn't alone. Steve was at the punching bag. How long had he been there? How many times had she passed it? Had he seen her and left her alone? She didn't know. Maggie looked back down, chewing on her lip as she tried to manipulate her shoelaces with one hand.

_How is he handling all of this?_ She couldn't imagine. The man had been on ice for almost seventy years, lost nearly everyone he loved, saved the world, and now was trying to track down his best friend who'd been brainwashed by the very organization he'd fought to destroy back in the 1940s and had done his absolute best to try and kill him. Considering he was down here, he was probably handling this about as well as she was, which was not great, to say the very least.

"Need help?" She looked up to realize that Steve had stopped what he was doing and was walking toward her cautiously, almost akin to someone approaching a wounded animal.

"I-I-uhhh, yeah, actually." Maggie managed to get out before he stooped down beside her. They were close, face to face. She hadn't been this close to him before, and she couldn't help but marvel at how _young_ he looked. Certainly, biologically he was in his 90s if his birth certificate was anything to go off of, but he didn't look any more than twenty-eight, twenty-nine. They looked almost the same age. Although, he certainly lacked the grey hairs that had begun sprouting at the crown of her head when she hit thirty. "I'm sorry to interrupt you. I didn't know anyone else was in here." She commented as he tied the laces with a tidy bow. Maggie paused, choosing her next words carefully.

"Trouble sleeping?" Steve asked as he rose to his feet.

"You beat me to the punch there, Captain."

"Huh?" Steve frowned, furrowing his brow.

Maggie chuckled, hauling herself from the floor, and rising to her feet as well. "I was trying to figure out how to ask you the same thing."

"Oh."

"A bit of the pot calling the kettle black, don't you think?" She said, surveying him. The easiness in his expression was gone, and there was something decidedly pinched about his features. "I won't tell Sam on you if you don't."

"I get the feeling even if I did Ms. Ramirez there's very little Sam could do that might affect the situation."

"Now Captain, where on earth would you get an idea like that?"

"No clue." He shook his head, cracking a small, almost fragile smile.

_There he is. _Maggie realized suddenly. The Steve she was acquainted with was Captain America, but there, just a second ago, she'd seen something undeniably Steve Rogers, something unspeakably, something unfathomably delicate. "Well, I'll let you get back to it. Thanks for the assist."

"Any time." Steve nodded.

Maggie nodded in reply, turning she paused before turning back to his already retreating form. She didn't really want to be down here, alone with her thoughts, working through shit that had no right to be on her mind at three in the morning. Steve, it looked like was in the same boat or at the very least in an adjacent boat, and it seemed they were sharing a single paddle between them. "Hey, quick question." Steve stopped and turned back around. "Do you know of any good taco stands that are open at this hour? I have an itch that I can't scratch."

"I don't. But, the internet probably does." Steve said, digging in his pocket, removed his cellphone and started tapping something into what she assumed was a search bar. "I don't know what constitutes good tacos, but there are some options." He commented, extending the phone to her.

Maggie took it, surveying the search results. "Some of them aren't too far away, and have some pretty favorable reviews." She paused, "You up for an adventure, Steve?"

"What?" He surveyed her uncertainly.

"Do you wanna go get tacos with me at three in the morning? I'm _technically_ not allowed off Avengers' property without an escort. Generally, Sam will go with, serving as an escort by proxy. But since Sam isn't here, I'd either have to wake Fabian or convince you to go with me." She explained quickly. "Since you're already awake and seem to be in the same mood I am, I figure tacos might be an easier sell for you than trying to explain to Stark Security that I have a three A.M. craving and that no delivery isn't the same thing." Maggie extended the phone back to him.

Steve took it, a contemplative expression on his face. "Sure. I'd be up for an adventure."

After a couple of false starts and about forty-five minutes of walking around Maggie and Steve found themselves sitting on a park bench with a spread of tacos across their laps, styrofoam cups of horchata between their knees.

"So, how do they stack up?" Steve asked as she took a bite of one of her tacos el pastor.

Maggie made a few non-committal noises as she chewed.

"Sorry."

Maggie shook her head as she finally swallowed. "Gave me a chance to think." She said. "Umm. It's not bad. Not the greatest El Pastor I've ever had, but it's hard to beat my grandmother's. It certainly scratches an itch since I can't make it myself presently."

"Sam says you're an excellent cook."

Maggie chuckled, "He would say that considering I am the _sole _source of consistently decent Mexican food he can find this side of the Mississippi."

Steve screwed his face up in a confused expression, and Maggie was almost sure he was going to cock his head to the side like a curious golden retriever. It was cute, but rather than torment him over it she decided to have mercy. "Sam got a taste for Mexican food when he and Riley were doing Pararescue indoc out at Lackland."

"Is that were you met?"

"Yes, actually."

"So you're former military, too."

"No, just a Texan out of her element." She smiled, taking a sip of her horchata.

"All of this must be an adjustment," Steve said, motioning vaguely to the city skyline.

"Well. The city, yes. Too many people, not enough open sky, but that's my problem with any city. It _is_ nice that I can be out here at 4:30 nearly 5:00 in the morning and have my pick of tacos from at least five different taco traditions. How are you enjoying your carne asada?"

"Good. It's good." Steve nodded, taking another bite.

"So what about you? I imagine a lot has changed since you were last here."

"You could say that." He said shortly.

_Shit. _Maggie had hoped that their conversation and casual banter had loosened him up a bit, but that obviously wasn't that case. She had to reevaluate her strategy. "It's strange going home after you've been away a while. I went back to my home town a few years back before Riley passed away before I moved permanently to the east coast. I wanted to say goodbye to my family, visit their graves before I left, my grandparents, mom, and brother. It was strange. It was the same place, with a lot of the same people, but it wasn't the same. It wasn't the same because I wasn't the same." She said, finishing off the el Pastor taco, doing her best not to drip lime and grease drippings out the back of the tortilla onto her leggings.

"Yeah, it's changed a lot."

It was an encouraging answer, so she proceeded. "I bet. How was the nightlife back in the day? You ever do anything like this?" Maggie asked as innocently as she could manage.

"No. Not exactly, but Buck and I found more than our fair share of trouble."

"I can't imagine growing up in a place like this. All of the different people and things going on at all hours of the day and night."

"I take it Texas is a little slower-paced than this."

"A bit. Particularly in West Texas where I'm from."

"Do you miss it? Texas, I mean."

"I mean. Yeah. Not as much as I used to. When I first moved out to the ranch oh almost ten years ago now, I was so homesick. Snow sucks in general, but when you've never experienced it to that magnitude and then when the sun taps out at 3:00 in the afternoon in the winter, it was hard. But now…now that I'm not there anymore, I miss the ranch more than anywhere else in the world." She paused, glancing over at Steve, who was staring down at his tacos miserably. "I still wouldn't change anything. I don't _regret_ helping him, even with how it ended."

Steve nodded, taking a small sip from his cup. "What was he like? I mean when he was you know on the ranch?" He managed after a moment.

Maggie looked down at tacos. She'd given him her polished initial evaluation on Barnes shortly after moving into the Avengers Tower. It had been nearly ten pages single-spaced when it was all said and done, but it hadn't given Steve the information he'd wanted, not in any real capacity. Was there anything of his friend left to save? That's what Steve wanted to know, and in truth, Maggie didn't know how to answer. It was why she hadn't included that sort of judgment call in her report. But Steve had been a good sport, particularly humoring her with their Taco excursion. She'd try to give him what he wanted, what he needed, which at the moment was the truth_. _"He was quiet, watchful, polite, but there wasn't much in the way of a personality." She paused, seeing a pained, pinched expression across Steve's face. "I take it that wasn't the norm for your friend."

"Then or now?" He scoffed, shaking his head.

_Okay, change direction here, this isn't going to go anywhere good. _"You know. Sam asked me a few days ago what I thought Barnes was up to when he wasn't, yanno avoiding us. I honestly couldn't answer, couldn't even hazard a guess." Maggie paused, chewing the inside of her cheek. "Suggestions?"

"I try not to think about it."

"It could help us." She hesitated. This wasn't about helping Steve. If anything this was about helping her understand the man she was tracking down. This was about understanding what made him _human_ rather than just a phantom in her nightmares or a name on a piece of paper. She had to ask because she needed to know. "It would help me help you track him down." Maggie clarified.

"There's no guarantee of that." He bit out.

"Nothing's a guarantee, Steve."

They sat there in silence, Steve staring down at his tacos, while Maggie watched. He was struggling. Something was going on, just below the surface. He was fighting himself, over what Maggie couldn't be sure, but it looked painful, almost unbearably so. Maggie wanted to reach over and put her hand on Steve's shoulder, to reassure him he wasn't alone, but she couldn't. Nothing was reassuring about her presence. In fact, her presence was a reminder, constant and painful, Bucky Barnes was still on the run because she hadn't called Sam in time.

"I…uhhh...I guess what do you want to know?" Steve began slowly after a moment. "I mean you've read all the files, and from the sounds of it seen all the documentaries. There really isn't much to tell." He shrugged, taking a large bite of his taco.

Well, Steve wasn't wrong. She had read all the files she could get her hands on and watched any and every documentary, news real, and interview she could. But it wasn't enough. This was the howling commandos Captain America and Bucky. It was propaganda at it's very best and an outright lie at its worst. It frankly didn't tell her a damn thing about the man she was looking for. In fact, they treated Steve Rogers and James Barnes from before the war as an obligatory footnote, something they breezed through before the first commercial break. Their lives before the war were simply a prelude to the _greatness_ that Captain America and his inseparable best friend would become. Maggie didn't buy it, because it was horse shit, and she was a verified horse shit expert. So she needed a reliable source, and Steve Rogers was the most _reliable_ source she had access to.

Maggie looked him up and down. He looked like _hell_. Would it be worth it to drag out this man's trauma so that she could get her answers? What would the cost be? And could she possibly justify it to herself, Sam, and most importantly to Steve?

"Whatever you want to tell me." She said finally.

Steve made a sound that Maggie couldn't quite identify, somewhere between a scoff and a choked back sob. "I...I...I don't think I can give you the information you're looking for, Ms. Ramirez." He paused with the smallest of sniffles.

"I understand. But honestly, you're not obligated to tell me anything at all." Maggie said, but it felt hollow. What else could she possibly say? She'd knowingly dragged her and Steve into dangerous territory, and now she'd have to find a way to get her and Steve back out again.

"No." He shook his head. "It only makes sense that you'd want to know about Buck- about the man you're tracking down. I just don't think I'm the one to do it." Steve said, removing his phone from his pocket.

"Which is totally understandable."

"But I think I know someone who might," Steve said face focused down on the phone.

Since they had been sitting there, the city had started to come to life—people already on their way to work. The sky was beginning to lighten up in preparation for dawn. Maggie let the light and the sounds of the city wash over her as she focused on the man sitting beside her, typing rapidly into his messenger. Who was Steve contacting? And did he really think that the person on the other end was going to answer at five in the morning?

"You up for an adventure?" Steve asked, looking from his phone as he stowed it back in his pocket, something light and easy melting his hardened features as if a weight was suddenly lifted from his shoulders.

Maggie opened and closed her mouth, "Can I ask where we're going?" She answered uncertainly after a moment.

"No. But there will be coffee." He answered, scarfing down his last taco in two quick bites.

Maggie's gaze narrowed. On instinct alone, she knew she should be suspicious, but in a matter of moments, she'd gone from worrying about how she was going to get the two of them back to the tower if Steve Rogers had a meltdown here on the park bench, to now being promised answers and hot coffee. It was a pleasant change, but superficial at the very best. She'd have to talk to Sam later to see if there was any way they could get Steve talking about Barnes, it couldn't be healthy the way he was bottling all of this up.

_And you'd know all about that, wouldn't you? _This wasn't about her. This was about finding answers to all of her questions and getting her life back. _Then _and only then would she start to process her shit. Until that time, any and all processing of _her _baggage seemed like a moot point.

"All right." She nodded. "Let me finish my tacos, and we can get going. Provided you buy me another horchata first."

"Sounds like a plan." Steve nodded, rising to his feet.

Steve let her finish her tacos and bought her a horchata, and Maggie found herself on a train to Brooklyn. Where she'd expected Steve to take her, she wasn't quite sure, but her confusion only grew as they wound through a back alley of one of the older Brooklyn neighborhoods.

The sun was up, and it was approaching 6:00 a.m. when they started toward the front stoop of a street-facing apartment. "You're not even going to give me the tiniest of hints of where we're going?" She asked as they approached the door.

"No. But don't worry, you're about to find out." Steve answered, knocking gently.

"Steve Rogers, you're-" She started before the door was answered by an elderly woman with a mess of curly white hair and round fire engine red spectacles.

Maggie took a staggering step back as the woman immediately crossed the threshold and dragged Steve into an embrace. "Steve! It's so good to see you." She said, hugging him tightly.

Steve returned the hug with extreme care. "You too. How have you been, Bec?" He asked as they pulled away from their embrace.

"Oh. Old." The woman shrugged, turning to Maggie. "Now who is this, Steven? Have you finally brought a girlfriend of yours for me to harass?" She grinned.

"Uh. No." Steve shook his head more than a little flustered before Maggie could get a word out. "No. Becca, this is Magdalen Ramirez," Steve explained, "Maggie, I'd like you to meet Mrs. Rebecca Proctor."

"Oh please, Steven," The woman rolled her eyes, extending a frail hand to Maggie. "Becca is just fine, dear."

"It's lovely to meet you," Maggie managed, taking the woman's hand, her brain kicking into overdrive as she tried not to slip into Southern Belle mode. It was the closest thing to a defense mechanism Maggie had when meeting new people, outside of a total shut down.

Becca held Maggie's hand tight. Pulling Maggie close, the older woman surveyed her with a critical eye, her electric blue eyes magnified by the thick lenses of her glasses. Maggie recognized a sizing up when she saw one and was simultaneously doing the same thing. This woman knew Steve. Like knew _knew_ Steve from back in the day, and she knew Barnes somehow. _Is she one of Barnes's old girlfriends?_ It didn't make sense. Who on earth was she talking to? Who had Steve brought her to meet, and why was he being all _secretive _about it?

"You're right, Steven," Becca said abruptly as she leaned around Maggie to look at Steve. "She _is _pretty." Maggie opened her mouth to protest but stopped when Becca winked, motioning with her chin to Steve, who had somehow managed to go a deep shade of pink. "Now come inside, dear, and get something to eat. Steve probably dragged you out here under the pretense of food and coffee." Becca led her into the apartment, Steve trailing behind them. "You know where the kitchen is, Steven, make yourself useful." She called over her shoulder.

"Yes, ma'am," Steve replied, a grin twisting at the corner of his mouth.

He peeled off in the direction of the kitchen, leaving Maggie alone with the older woman. "Now, do you go by Magdalen, or by Maggie?" Becca asked as they emerged into the living room.

"Maggie, please. Mrs. Proctor."

"Becca, dear, Becca is just fine." The woman said, releasing Maggie's hand. "Take a seat there." She waved at the couch.

Maggie sat obediently, watching the other woman sink into a plush armchair. She looked so fragile and frail. Her face was creased with lines from years of worry and care. Her hands were thin and bony and veiny. Yet there was something in her expression that was fierce and unrelenting. Something that age and time hadn't been able to touch. There was something familiar in that piercing blue gaze, and it gnawed at the back of Maggie's brain as she tried to place where she'd seen it before.

"So Steve tells me you're from Texas originally." Becca began.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Becca, dear. I already have Steve calling me ma'am, making me feel more ancient than I already am. I don't need it from you too." She corrected firmly.

"Sorry."

"And please don't apologize, dear." She smiled before continuing. "So, where from in Texas? I spent a little time there as a military wife, Lackland Air Force Base, near and around San Antonio."

"Midland-Odessa area, but I spent some time in the San Antonio area as well," Maggie said, trying to keep her eyes focused on the woman rather than the room around them, which was littered with photos and mementos that kept pulling at her attention.

"Well, of course, you're a Military Wife as well. Air Force, too, if I remember correctly." Becca said.

"Oh. Yes. Did Steve tell you that too?" Maggie asked, hoping that the edge of irritation wasn't seeping into her tone too much. Whatever Becca knew it wasn't her fault that Steve hadn't mentioned to Maggie that he'd been talking about her.

"He did. He's told me a lot about you, which I take it from the tone he didn't do the same for you."

_Shit. _So much for poisoned honey. Was it the exhaustion or the total lack of give a shit that was ruining her poker face. Maggie didn't know but figured that since she was just meeting Mrs. Proctor, honesty would be the best policy. "No." Maggie shook her head.

"I'm sorry about that. Steven can be a little protective of me. He's always been protective of me." Becca said with a healthy dose of annoyance.

"I understand. Sam can be the same way too."

"Annoying, isn't it?" Becca said conspiratorially.

"Oh my god, yes." Maggie sighed.

Becca smiled, nodding sympathetically. "They do it because they love us after a fashion. But it can be a little hard to remember that some times when they're being complete idiots about it."

Maggie chuckled. "I think that's a good way to put it." She paused. "So I guess in the name of the military wives club and good manners, I have to ask. Where did Mr. Proctor serve?" It wasn't the most invasive question she could've asked. It wasn't even the question she _wanted_ to ask, but it was the most logical progression for where the conversation had taken them, which would hopefully lead to a more appropriate time for Maggie to ask what she really wanted to ask.

"Oh. It wasn't Mr. Proctor, Mr. Proctor was my second husband. My first husband, Gabriel, was Air Force and served in Korea." Becca answered. "In some godforsaken place, I've now forgotten the name of." She paused at the sound of a loud series of crashes in the kitchen. "Steven, are you all right in there? Do I need to send Ms. Ramirez on a rescue mission?"

"I'm fine," Steve called from the kitchen after a brief pause. "How do you take your coffee?"

"Black." Becca and Maggie answered in unison.

"Copy that."

Steve emerged moments later with a tray of food and coffee mugs in one hand and a pot of coffee in the other. "Here you are." He said, setting the load down on the coffee table between her and Becca.

Maggie surveyed the tray, two mugs, two plates, two sets of utensils. "You're not staying?" She glanced up at Steve, aware of the panic creeping into her voice.

"I had some things come up that I need to take care of. I'll be back in a little while," Steve answered. "Provided that's okay with you, Bec."

Maggie glanced over at Becca, a look of resignation on the older woman's face. "Sounds all right with me. I'm sure Maggie and I will find _something_ to talk about." Becca replied.

"But. But. I'm not supposed to be out of Stark Tower without-" Maggie started.

"You'll be perfectly safe with me here. Steve has some of Stark Security watching the place." Becca cut in shortly. "Which, on that note, tell Tony Stark he can still kiss my ass." She said dryly.

Maggie almost choked. Glancing between Steve and Becca, looking for some kind of clue as to what the _hell_ was going on.

"He's not all bad, but I'll be sure to pass the word along," Steve leaned down and pecked the old woman on the cheek. "You two have fun."

"I'm sure we will," Becca replied.

Maggie starred, uncertain of what she could say. "Have a good day. I'll see you in a little while," Steve said, patting her on the shoulder. And before Maggie could get a word in edgewise, Steve was gone from the apartment without a word. "Is he normally like this? And by this, I mean dropping people off on your doorstep in the early hours of dawn and then leave them?"

"Believe it or not, he used to be worse." Becca smiled. She paused, shaking her head, picked up her mug of coffee. "Poor man. The 21st century has not been very kind to him."

Maggie didn't know how to respond. Becca wasn't wrong. The 21st century hadn't been kind to Steve Rogers. He'd lost nearly everyone he cared about, and two of the most important people in his life that were still around didn't remember him or were unable to remember him long enough to realize he was alive. Never mind waking up seventy years after crashing a plane in the middle of the ocean.

So who was Becca Proctor? Maggie's mind felt fuzzy from a lack of sleep, and likely the depression she'd been fighting with that was doing shitty things to her memory as she tried to recall if she'd seen that name before and then of course in what context. Obviously, they'd known each other before the war, but how exactly was still eluding her. Maggie's gaze wandered the room, trying to absorb her surroundings, and trying to deduce anything she could from them before she dove in and started asking more pointed questions about why the hell Steve had dragged her here at six in the morning under the pretense of answers. The walls of the living room were covered with photos, both black and white, and full-color. At the far end of the room was a fireplace. Placed on the mantel was a case holding the American flag folded neatly into that all too familiar three-point fold. She'd given Riley's flag to Sam. At the time she hadn't been able to bear the thought of looking at it, but now she was thankful that she had, otherwise it would have _also_ been lost to the fire. The flag sitting on Becca Proctor's mantel must have been Gabriel's flag, but it looked older than that. Beside the flag was a yellowed piece of paper in a frame and a black and white framed photograph. "Go ahead and take a look." Becca's voice made Maggie jump.

"Pardon?" Maggie asked, bashfully meeting the woman's unrelenting gaze. Had she been watching her look around? Was she waiting for the questions? What did she know that Maggie didn't? Well. A lot more than Maggie did, obviously, but what precisely did Becca Proctor know that Steve thought might help Maggie?

"Take a look around." Becca urged.

"May I?" Maggie motioned to the flag.

"Please."

Maggie rose slowly to her feet and approached the mantle, her eyes fixated on the black and white photograph sitting beside the folded flag. She picked up the frame carefully and turned to face the woman who was watching her. Maggie glanced between the picture and the woman, trying to keep the shock from washing over her.

"You're Rebecca Barnes." Her voice was small as she said it.

"I was wondering how long it was going to take you to make that connection," Becca said, cracking a small, sad smile.

"I'm so sorry. I didn't know...I mean, I didn't think..." Maggie stammered, looking down at the photograph. It was James Barnes, in full uniform standing with his arm slung around a young woman in a plain cotton dress. She couldn't have been more than fifteen or sixteen. They were both laughing, their smiles broad, their eyes bright. The eyes, they had the same eyes, how had Maggie not seen it before? "Now, I just feel stupid."

"Don't. You've had a lot on your plate from the sounds of things. The fact that you didn't already know is sort of..." she paused. "...nice."

"It's a beautiful photograph," Maggie said, returning the frame to the mantle.

"I was sixteen when it was taken. It's the last photograph that I have before he died...well disappeared." Becca shook her head. "It's strange to think that he's been alive all this time. The military said he'd been KIA. All they sent us was a flag, that letter, and medals, for my brother's sacrifice and valor," She scoffed at the last word, a stinging bitterness in her tone. It was a bitterness Maggie understood all too well. "It all seemed hollow, considering what we'd lost. But we were at war, and we weren't the only ones who lost people. It hit my father hard. I'm convinced it killed him. Losing his only son to the second world war, he'd seen in his lifetime. My mother was a fighter, though. She packed away that flag, letter, and medals, and we moved on. We didn't have a choice. I don't think I ever did quite wrap my head around the idea that he was gone. Then, of course, a few months later, I lost Steven as well. It seemed natural, poetic, almost that one couldn't survive without the other. They'd been inseparable for as long as I could remember."

Becca paused to clear her throat. "When they pulled Steven out of the ice a few years ago, it felt like vindication. My brother wasn't dead, not all of him, at least. If I couldn't have all of my brother, my Bucky back, then at least I could have a part of him." Becca paused. "Steve didn't come to see me until after he got out of the hospital this April. I wish he'd come sooner. But it would've been unfair to Steve to ask such a thing of him. I've had almost 70 years to process everything, to grieve. For Steve, it's still raw as if it had happened yesterday." She trailed off.

Maggie could feel a tightness in her chest form at the woman's words. The pain, though old and muted, was still very much present almost 70 years later. Her hand went to the chain around her neck, her thoughts went first to Riley, but then also to the brother she'd lost almost twenty years ago. It still hurt. Riley hurt more, certainly, but she could still remember when Antonio had died. The denial that somehow her brother wasn't gone, that had persisted even though she knew, logically knew that her brother was dead. She couldn't imagine what Becca was going through, living for almost seventy years not knowing precisely what had happened to her brother, then to one day wake up and be told that he's alive. Maggie couldn't imagine, didn't want to imagine. Yet, looking into the woman's face, Maggie knew the pain, that particular aching in her chest.

"You've seen my brother."

"Yes." She nodded. "I have." She wasn't going to lie to this woman. If Steve hadn't wanted her to say anything, he wouldn't have left, but Maggie had a feeling that was exactly what this little meeting was about and exactly why he hadn't wanted to be here.

"Steve told me all about it. Thank you." Becca said gently. Her expression was softer, more tender somehow than only a few minutes before.

"For what?" Maggie asked.

"Steve was concerned he was going to come here, you know. After what happened in D.C. He thought my brother might come to me looking for answers." She explained. "Little did they know he was just an hour or two north of here with you. You looked after him for two weeks before those bastards that hurt my brother came to hurt you. Thank you for being there with him." Becca surveyed her with those intense blue eyes.

Maggie nodded, unsure of what she could say. _Your brother ruined my life, but cool, yeah, no problem._ No. Maggie wouldn't say that, even if she did feel it, even on the best of days.

Fortunately, Becca didn't expect her to respond. "Now come here drink some coffee, I get the feeling that we have a long day ahead of us," Becca said.

Maggie obliged and returned to the couch and her coffee.

"Now, Steve told me you wanted to know about my brother," Becca said as she picked a grape from the fruit salad and popped it in her mouth.

"Yes."

"Why? You're sitting on top of one of the most technologically advanced buildings in the world, I can't say best intelligence gathering, but you certainly have access to a lot of information. Why do you want to hear Steve or me for that matter reminisce about the 'good ol' days'?" The woman asked critically

Maggie looked down, focusing on the mug in her hand. This was a test. Maggie knew that instinctively. But why? To see if she was worthy? To see if she was deserving? It made sense. It was one thing to talk about the death of her brother, but another to talk about his life. That was hard, very hard, and Becca wanted to know if Maggie was worth the effort. Why did she want to know about James Barnes? Well. She wanted to find him. She wanted to find him to get her life back, which at the moment looked like getting to know him as a person. Would that be enough for Bucky Barnes's sister? How much had she endured because her brother had, by chance, been best friends with Captain America? How many people had come knocking on her door asking about her brother? How many since Steve had been pulled from the ice? What about since the events in Washington, D.C.? What would make her any different? _Because you can bring her brother home, and provide closure for a seventy-year-old wound._

"I won't lie, Mrs. Proct-"

"Becca, dear, Becca." Becca interrupted.

"Right. Sorry." Maggie took a sip of the coffee and took a deep breath. "I won't lie, Becca. Some of this, some of my motivations are selfish. Your brother was on my ranch for two weeks, and I lost everything because of it." She paused, evaluating the other woman's expression. Becca's expression was flat, if not slightly critical, but not hostile, which was enough for Maggie to continue. "I don't blame him for that. I just...I want to know who that man was...is...and I feel that knowing who he is will help me not just to find him, but to understand why he's worth finding. Which I know sounds terrible, but I think when you read too much about a person, no matter how engaging and humanizing, it's difficult to imagine that person as well...as anything more than just a name on a page. I just want to make him more than just a face in a picture or a name on a page." Maggie stopped, licking her lips. "I want to make him _real_ so that I can find this real person." Maggie felt light-headed, her words bunched together and twisting as she spoke. "I'm sorry, I haven't been sleeping well, I have no idea if that made any sense whatsoever," Maggie said breathlessly, blinking slowly, even as she was aware that Becca was watching her.

"I can see why Steve trusts you," She smiled softly before taking a sip of her coffee.

Maggie shook her head, "No. No. I don't think he trusts me." That was true enough. It wasn't trust so much as the circumstances that had brought her and Steve together as unlikely partners in tracking down the elusive Winter Soldier. Yet, for some reason, Becca thought differently.

"Really?" Becca raised her eyebrows. "You think he'd leave you alone with the kid sister of his best friend if he didn't trust you? He hasn't even brought Samuel Wilson to see me."

She had a point, and it left Maggie speechless. Opening and closing her mouth as she tried to find a way to respond, Maggie realized that she was out of her depth, with no idea of what to say or do next. When Steve had asked her if she was up for an adventure, she wasn't entirely sure what she had imagined, but it wasn't this. She'd known James Barnes had sisters, she'd looked it up, it was written down in her journal, but she hadn't followed through with that because...well...why would she? What possible information could one of Barnes's sisters have that would lead to them to finding Barnes? "I don't think Sam's thought to ask." Maggie managed after a moment.

"And neither did you. But you asked Steven to tell you about my brother, and now here you are." Becca paused, surveying her carefully. "Do you know how many people I've had look me up and try to sit me down for an interview about my brother since his disappearance in 1945?"

"No." Maggie shook her head.

"More than a thousand. It could possibly be in the multiple thousands by now. Do you know how many I've given?" Again Maggie shook her head. "About three, possibly four. Do you want to know why?" Maggie nodded, prompting Becca to continue. "Because most of them wanted something. Wanted to take a bit of the fame, a bit of the legend that was and is Bucky Barnes, Howling Commando, Best friend of the famous Captain America for themselves." Becca paused, "But I get the feeling that you're not interested in the fame or the fortune. If that were the case, Steve wouldn't have brought you to me in the first place. I think rather than taking, you're more of the giving type, sometimes a little too much if what you've exhibited over the past month, and a half to Steve and in some small way to me as well is anything to go by." Becca glanced meaningfully at Maggie's arm, all tied up in its sling.

Maggie wanted to say something, wanted to protest, wanted to argue somehow, that _no_ she wasn't worthy of Steve's trust or the trust of Rebecca Barnes Proctor. She only wanted to find Barnes to be able to go home. But the words wouldn't come. Personally, Maggie couldn't imagine how worn down the woman had become over the years, of people asking her to talk about her brother, to talk about something so personal and painful with no regard for the effect that it might have on her. Yet she wanted to talk to Maggie, wanted to help Maggie so that she could find James Barnes and bring him back to her. Maggie didn't understand _why_ Becca and Steve trusted her with this, but perhaps their trust was enough.

"So. Shall we get started?" Becca asked.

"Sure." Maggie nodded.

Becca rose unsteadily to her feet and went to a box sitting on top of the record player. Maggie made a move to stand up, but Becca waved her off. "Sit down. I've been told you're on a strict no lifting order while your arm and hand are still like that. I may be old, but I'm not _that _old, dear." She said, proceeding back over to Maggie, sat down on the couch, and put the box between them. "Now. Let's see." She said, pensively brushing the dust off the lid, she opened the box.

Maggie leaned in to see the contents inside. It was crammed full of files, newspaper clippings, and old letters. "That's what I've got," Becca said. "Everything from 1943 when he shipped out to this April when he-" The lump in her throat kept her from finishing. "Poor, Steven." She sighed, shaking her head, blinked back tears.

Maggie reached out to touch the woman's shoulder. She wanted to say it was going to be alright. She wanted to say that she was going to find her brother and bring him home, but she couldn't and so she wouldn't. Maggie swallowed hard, pulling her hand back. She remembered screaming her brother's name until her voice was raw, she'd practically collapsed from the exhaustion. The pain was still there fresh and bright, just like yesterday, pain reflected in Becca's expression.

"So." Becca's cleared her throat, looking up she met Maggie's gaze. "What do you want to know?"

Maggie swallowed, trying to find the right words. "Tell me about Bucky Barnes." Becca raised an eyebrow. Maggie took a deep breath before proceeding, "Tell me about your brother."

Becca and Maggie talked and sifted through her box of letter, clippings, and documents until about four in the afternoon when Maggie's body finally gave out, and she fell asleep, curled up on Becca's couch. She woke long enough for Steve to call them a cab, but only after she'd promised Becca that she'd return to finish their conversation as soon as they both could. Returning to the tower, Maggie opened her journal and jotted down what she'd seen and heard that, before collapsing into bed.

That night, for the first time in a long time, she didn't dream about falling or about dying in her smoke-filled kitchen strapped to a chair. Instead, she dreamed for the first time about Bucky Barnes, friend of Steve Rogers, brother of Rebecca Proctor-Barnes.

* * *

This was a bit of a longer chapter, but there was a lot I wanted to get through! So what did you think? Personally, I love Becca and Steve's relationship. Poor Maggie has no idea how to handle the two of them!

Love to hear what you thought. Comments are always welcome!

Happy Reading!


	15. Born on the 4th of July

Author's Notes: Marvel owns what it owns, and I own what I own, let's keep it that way shall we? Don't Sue me!

Recommended Listening: Star Spangled Man (Cover) By Meg Bodun, Fortunate Son (cover) by Chase Holfelder, Born in the U.S.A. by Bruce Springsteen

* * *

Chapter 15: Born on the 4th of July

James squeezed his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose. The bright light of the computer monitor was making his eyes water and his headache. He didn't like researching on the computer. There was something more _satisfying_ working with hard copy documents and books, something about the tactile sensation of paper under his fingertips. Unfortunately, not all of his research could be conducted in hard copy books. One of the great and terrible innovations of the twenty-first century was digitization, which opened a wide range of opportunities for him to track down and record who the Winter Soldier had killed, and learn as much as he could about them. Many of his...many of the Winter Soldier's marks had been famous, people with extensive political, scientific, cultural, or strategic connections. These were the easiest to research. To his mind, those made the most sense. There was a logic to it, a reason, a sense of purpose as to why their lives had been taken. It was those caught in the crossfire, those whose lives were taken for no other reason than they were in the wrong place at the wrong that he had a harder time with. Not just uncovering information about the individual, but also wrapping his head around. The first lives and the last he'd taken as the Winter Soldier were hitting him the hardest as he searched in vain for scraps of information about the former. Three American servicemen in West Germany in 1954, almost a whole decade after Hydra had taken him. The details were fuzzy. It wasn't even so much a memory as a vague sense of recollection. He'd found the report, but hadn't been able to find anything about the men who'd died. Did it matter? No. They'd been dead now sixty years. But he needed to know, wanted to know who they'd been, what they might have been had they not been arbitrarily selected by Hydra, by the Winter Soldier, by _him_ for a premature death.

The other name, the first name in his journal and the last name chronologically, the last person killed by the Winter Soldier, he knew it all too well. She had been killed in the crossfire of something bigger than she could even imagine, James knew where he could find the information but was avoiding it. It had been two months since he'd left her to die, and he couldn't get her out of his head. The way that she'd asked him to stay asked to help him. He couldn't help but wonder what would've happened to her if he'd never stumbled into her barn. Would she be throwing a Fourth of July cookout for her clients and volunteers? Of course, she would've, but without fireworks, it would have spooked the horses and everyone else for that matter. Would the people of Last Chance Ranch still gather? No. There was no reason to. What about Wilson? No, he was helping Rogers track him down.

James paused. The Fourth of July, the Fourth of July, it was Steve Roger's birthday. Steve Rogers, Captain America, born on the Fourth of July. He would've laughed at the irony of it all if not for the sharp pain in his shoulder and spine, and because he was in a very _very _quiet library.

Sarah Rogers had always tried to make that day special for Steve. The Barnes family had too. They'd always included both Mrs. Rogers and Steve in their Fourth of July celebrations whenever possible. But then, no matter what they'd been doing that day, he and Steve would climb up on the roof of their apartment building to watch the fireworks.

_Well._ He added sharply. _Not you. Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes. _

James shook his head. How would Steve Rogers celebrate today? Would he celebrate at all? Or was Rogers on his trail, closing in on him as he sat here?

_Would Rogers celebrate the fourth with Becca?_ Becca had always loved the fireworks. She hadn't much liked the noise when she was younger, but she loved the colors and designs. He couldn't help but wonder how much time had changed his little sister. Could he still call her that? She was old and gray and married, twice married in fact with children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren. _Will she be celebrating with her family? Celebrate the holiday with her kids and grandkids and great-grandkids?_

There was a bitter taste on the back of his tongue. Was that guilt? Anger? Regret? Or perhaps more likely it was his body reminding him to eat, he hadn't been good about that recently. His thoughts returned to Becca, to James Barnes's youngest sister. The last blood relative of James Barnes who'd known him as he'd been in life, before the war, before the fall, before the solider. Did she know he was alive? If she did, what did she think? What had Rogers told her? Did she think he was going to come to see her? Did she even want to see him at all?

James had looked her up shortly after his visit to the Smithsonian. It had been curiosity more than anything else at the time. He'd thought about going to see her. She'd have been able to give him the answers he was looking for, the closure he so desperately wanted. But then he'd started experiencing the withdrawal symptoms, and he'd headed north instead.

_Besides._ He reasoned. _She wouldn't want to see me anyway, not like this, not after everything I've done. Why would she want to see the shade of who her brother had once been? _It would only have brought her pain. She'd already lost her brother once. She'd grieved and moved on. It would be cruel to open that wound again for his benefit. In this end, this was more merciful, for everyone involved. He'd made a choice. Now he had to live with that choice and see it through to its conclusion. He needed to get his head on straight and piece together his past before he could drag anyone else into this mess with him.

It had been a little over two months since her life had ended, and a little more than one month since Maggie had found herself sitting on Becca Barnes-Proctor's couch, the youngest sister of James Barnes and the last surviving Barnes sister. It had been one month since Steve had dropped Maggie off on Becca's doorstep, and what had initially seemed like a once or twice occurrence had turned into a three or four times a week meet up. It was a surprising development, but one that broke up the monotony of sitting at a desk all day scanning files and scouring the internet for clues.

Becca had done a lot of research over the years, trying to find out exactly what had happened to her brother, going so far as hiking the Alps where he had allegedly fallen. In the process, she'd compiled a ton of data, and although some things were more useful than others, it gave Maggie something to work with. As a sort of bonus, and only adding to Maggie's delight, Becca spent a lot of time telling her stories from her childhood about Bucky, Steve, and the entire Barnes clan. Stories from better times, Becca always said, from before the war, before things had become complicated and their family had been fractured and broken. It was nice to hear about James Barnes from someone who'd _known _him and was willing (or otherwise able) to talk to her. As a side effect, Maggie was also learning about Steve Rogers from Becca as well, namely who he'd been before the celebrity that was Captain America and the Howling Commandos had taken over his life.

Maggie glanced up at the mirror, watching as Steve worked a section of her waist-length hair into a perfect victory roll. Steve had been quiet about her and Becca's budding friendship. He seemed to encourage their friendship. Yet he hadn't really didn't say anything about what he _thought_ about his best friend's kid sister having lunch with one of the only non-hostile parties to interact with James Barnes in the last seventy years multiple times a week. It was a strange relationship dynamic to have. Her interactions, thus far, with Steve had been strange. They were perfectly civil and polite to one another, like a work friend who dropped in at all hours of the day and night. But that's really where their relationship stopped. They weren't friends, not _real_ friends. Their conversations were mostly utilitarian, with the rare moments of interpersonal insight. However, the closest they'd been to acting like _real_ friends had been the once at three in the morning, eating tacos on a park bench for reasons that more or less consisted of 'I couldn't sleep, and it's either this or working myself into exhaustion.' Yet, despite that, here he was, helping her get ready before they went to the Proctor Family's Fourth of July Barbecue, (although Maggie highly doubted that actual barbecue would be served.) Maggie wanted to be his friend. It was clear that he and Sam were friends (although she had suspicions that they might be a little more than that) and she couldn't help but feel that it was only _fair_ that if she was going to spend an inordinate amount of time with the man looking for his best friend, then she should be friends with the guy she was helping.

"So where on earth did you learn to style hair like this?" Maggie asked, eyes closed, but acutely aware of Steve as he moved around her, spraying a fine mist of hairspray over her hair. "Was this a pre-war skill or something you learned through your USO days or something more recent?" She asked, hazarding a quick peek at what he was doing.

"Picked it up here and there." He answered with a shrug. "I suppose you wonder where I learned to paint nails too."

Maggie glanced down at her fingernails. They were now a "Victory Red" and would match the lipstick she was going to apply as soon as Steve finished her hair. "No. That makes sense to me. Becca says you were an artist, _are_ an artist. One paintbrush seems rather like any other." She answered. "With hair, it just seems a little different. It's a different medium than say painting or drawing." Maggie paused. "What is your preferred medium?"

He chuckled shortly.

"What?"

"Nothing," he shook his head. "You can open your eyes now and take a look."

Maggie opened her eyes and surveyed her expression critically. Steve had taken her long, tangled mess of hair and had sculpted it into a work of victory roll art. "It's beautiful, Steve, thank you."

"Any time. Becca mentioned that you'd asked her about 1940s fashion, and she thought that I should help doll you up for the get-together today." Steve answered.

"That's very generous of you, Steve, but you didn't answer my question." Maggie turned on the barstool she was sitting on to look up at him.

"What?"

"Preferred medium."

"Oh." He paused, "I worked with whatever was cheap and available. I was always better at drawing, and pencils were cheaper and easier to get ahold of, so that's what I primarily worked in. If I had to pick a favorite, it would be watercolors." He explained. "Why?"

"Curiosity and birthday present ideas."

He tensed. "That _really_ isn't necessary."

"Not a fan of birthdays or not a fan of attention?"

Steve looked her over warily.

Maggie sighed. "I ask in the spirit of genuine interest because I understand. Do you know how I spent my last two birthdays?"

"How?"

"Drunk. Very drunk." She said. "Not one of my better moments, but I don't like celebrating my birthday. Haven't for a very, very long time. I all but forbade Riley and Sam from celebrating or making me celebrate it." Maggie explained. "I know we're going to Becca's thing this afternoon, and then there is Stark's thing tonight. If you want or need me to run interference so you can run for the exit, I totally can." She commented seriously.

"You don't have to do that," Steve answered.

"No. But I _can._" She watched him closely at the way he looked at her. Something pained very nearly pinched in his features. "Just let me know," Maggie said quickly. She wasn't going to push the issue any further. The guy was clearly uncomfortable. She didn't want to make it any worse.

Her mind, however, not content to just leave well enough alone, immediately went to fixate on a different object of stress. Maggie was meeting Becca's children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, including an assortment of people Becca had fostered or adopted over the years. _They want to meet you, dear. _Was all Becca had said before she'd told Maggie that she needed to come dressed in theme. In all, there were supposed to be thirty-something people there. "Do you really think this is a good idea, Steve?" Maggie blurted out before she could stop herself.

Maggie didn't need to know the answer. She knew Steve thought it was a good idea. She also knew functionally, logically why Becca's kid's wanted to meet her. _Vultures._ Becca had explicitly told Maggie that she wasn't the first to come and ask about her brother, and although Maggie had the endorsement of Steve Rogers, she had no doubt Becca's kids were a little more than wary of anyone who might be in a position to take advantage of their mother.

"They just want to meet you. I'm sure Bec has been telling them all about you."

Maggie _humphed._ She hadn't so much as been told their _names. _Had Becca been talking about her? What was there to say? Other than perhaps, "This girl is trying to find your Uncle Jimmy,"? It was unfair to both her and Becca, but in all honesty, what was there to say about _her?_ She was pretty damn boring presently. "What if they don't like me?"

Steve turned his head, a puzzled expression on his face as if the thought had never even crossed his mind. "Why wouldn't they like you?"

"I dunno? Something to do with taking advantage of an old woman in her advanced age?"

"But you're not."

"I mean, I know that, but do they?"

"No. But they will." Steve said firmly. "Now come on. We should get going."

She opened her mouth to protest but thought better of it. _You don't understand_. She wanted to scream. _This woman is the closest thing to a friend that I have at the moment._ But she didn't, because Steve was very nearly in the same boat. He had the Avengers sure and Sam, but Sam was away constantly, and Steve couldn't even tell the Avengers that he didn't want a birthday party. Becca was one of Steve's last links to the past, yes, but she was also one of his only friends. Or at the very least, that's what Maggie had observed.

_God, we're pathetic, aren't we?_

Maggie nodded, grabbing her handbag, and they started to the elevator. "Have you met Becca's kids?" She asked as the elevator doors closed.

"I have, yes. They were all here for Passover."

"You're Jewish?" She asked.

"I am."

"And the Barnes family is too?"

"Yes." He nodded as the elevator doors opened, and they walked out toward the vehicle waiting for them.

"I can honestly say I feel like I should've known, but that is something that the documentaries _never_ mention."

"They don't," Steve said dryly as they both settled into the back seat of a nondescript black sedan.

_They don't mention a lot of things. _Maggie had to bite her tongue. This wasn't the time or place to talk about what she suspected. The guy wasn't _out_ as it would happen, even if she did suspect that he and Sam were a _thing. _If and when he was ready, he'd come out, then and only then they could talk about being of a similar inclination, stars _and_ stripes as it would happen.

"Anything I should know about? Topics to avoid? Things to not bring up? Politics? Religion? The Dodgers?"

A smile quirked up at the corner of his mouth. "I think you should just be yourself."

"Well, as I have no idea how to be anyone else, that was generally the plan."

"You don't need to be nervous."

"Maggie smiled, "Appreciate it, Steve."

"I'm being serious."

"So am I."

"Oh. You're welcome."

They sat in silence the rest of the ride there, a churning in the pit of her stomach. _Steve wouldn't lead me astray, would he?_ She couldn't help but wonder, her stomach twinging as the car came to a stop.

Steve gave some quick instructions to the driver that she didn't quite catch all of before helping her from the car. _This was a bad idea._ They were at a park, a large group congregated around a set of picnic benches, streamers, and balloons, and all sorts of decorations hung up. There was a grill, and coolers, and a gaggle of kids playing with bubbles, and kicking around a large blue ball, someone had also quite recently knocked down an oversized Jenga set. Presiding over it all was Becca sitting in a folding lawn chair, with a small child probably no more than six on her lap. She was stroking the girl's head and murmuring into her hair. Steve caught her attention, and she nodded, motioning with her chin.

"Come on. I have to introduce you to someone."

"But." Maggie stammered as Steve took her by the arm and started leading her over to a group of people.

"Steven. Glad you could join us." It was an older man who addressed them, breaking away from a group of adults chatting. He was probably in his mid-sixties, his hair while gray had flecks of color in it still, making it difficult to pin down a more precise age. His eyes were a sharp piercing blue, and they surveyed them as they approached.

"Always an honor to receive an invitation," Steve said, shaking the man's hand. "Good to see you."

"You as well." The man replied before turning to her. "You must be Ms. Ramirez."

"Maggie." She said, extending her hand.

"James Martinez-Proctor." He took her hand, shaking it.

"It's a pleasure to meet you. You must be Becca's eldest child."

"Hard to get anything past her, isn't it?" James asked, glancing over at Steve.

"Just depends on what it is." She said with a quick smile.

"Steve. Can you come over and help me with something!" Becca called.

"Be right there." Steve called over his shoulder, "I'll be right back." He said before walking away.

Maggie stood there, uncertain if she should follow after or try to make small talk until Steve returned. James was apparently thinking the same thing as he observed her. "Mother has told us a lot about you." He began.

Maggie tensed. This was how it started. He was going to tell her they didn't like her hanging around their mother, and that she needed to stop immediately. That they didn't want her unburying and reopening old wounds by talking about her brother. "Good things, I hope." She managed weakly.

"Only good things," James said. "Mother says you used to have a veteran's equine-assisted therapy facility."

"Yeah. Last Chance Ranch."

"Thank you for your service," James commented.

"Pardon?" Maggie stammered.

"Your service as a military spouse and widow, and for your service to the veteran community. That's no easy thing. We're not always the most outwardly _appreciative _folks." James explained.

"Oh. Thanks." She said, taken aback. No one had ever thanked her for her service. It just seemed like the thing to do, given the state of veteran's affairs and the severe lack of support system for most veterans. Then something clicked into place in her mind. "You served."

"Drafted, yes." He nodded.

"Vietnam?"

"Just out of high school."

She nodded. This wasn't what she'd expected at all. She's expected a shovel talk, a cease and desist at the very best, and while there was still _plenty _of time for their conversation to veer sharply in that direction, it didn't seem like that was going to be the case. "Your mother didn't really tell me anything about you or her other children." She said slowly.

"She wouldn't. She's an insanely private person. Do you know how long we've been trying to get her to tell us about her brother?"

_Her Brother._ The word choice was particular. It wasn't James Barnes, Uncle James, or even just "our uncle," but instead, her brother. "You mean...she doesn't talk about him?"

"No." James shook his head. "It's the past, and it's buried, is what she'd always told us when we asked."

But that didn't make sense. There were photos of him out and around Becca's apartment. Certainly, she must've told them something. Becca had mentioned that she hadn't given many interviews, but did that mean to her children as well did it? Well, apparently so. Maggie adjusted, uneasily, her stomach twisting and knotting. "You want to know why me." She said in a small voice.

"I think there's a very particular reason _why_ she's talking to you."

"Because I've seen him."

"Partially." He paused, frowning thoughtfully. "You know some of my mother's story. You know her life hasn't been a particularly easy one. She's lost a lot of people she loved, but so have you."

"So you're saying that makes me an ideal candidate to talk to your mother about her brother?" Maggie said her voice clipped and sharper than she'd meant.

"No. I think she sees a lot of herself in you. At least that's what I've gathered. She doesn't have to _explain_ why something matters, you understand, because you've been there, or been somewhere similar." He explained. "We don't want anything out of you, Ms. Ramirez. We just want you to keep doing what you're doing. Perhaps, try to convince our mother to share some of her past with us."

"I'll see what I can do."

"You're already doing so much. And my siblings and I are very appreciative of it. You make her feel young again, and I know we've all been able to see a difference in her mood since you've started coming for your visits."

Maggie paused, taken aback. "I don't know what to say."

"You don't have to say anything," James replied. "You are welcome here. We are glad you came, and we would be honored if you stayed."

"Thank you." She managed after a moment.

"Now, If you don't mind too much, I'd like to introduce you to the rest of the Barnes-Proctor family," James said.

"I'd love nothing more."

James led her around the park where they'd set up, introducing her first to his half-sisters, Mary, Jenny, Elizabeth, and Stephanie before expanding out to the grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and all of those that Becca had fostered or adopted over the years. All of the adults embraced her warmly, echoing James's sentiments. They were glad she was there. They were delighted that their mother, their grandmother, their matriarch, the heart and soul of their family, had met her and had brought her into their family.

"So. What do you think?" Becca asked, sinking beside Maggie at the picnic bench.

Maggie set the hotdog down that she'd just taken a massive bite out of and chewed slowly as she thought of a way to respond. "They're all lovely." Maggie managed after swallowing.

"They worry about me," Becca said pensively.

Maggie nodded, taking a sip from her cup.

"They're glad you're here, but I don't think they quite know what to make of you." Becca chuckled.

"I don't think _anyone _knows what to make of me, including me," Maggie replied.

"You're a sweet girl, Maggie," Becca said, patting her arm gently.

They both looked over at the sound of shouts and cheers from the kids to find that a group of them had attached themselves to Steve's waist, arms, and legs and were giggling in delight as he dragged them around the grassy field. "Oh, poor Steven." Becca chuckled. "He never was much good with children. I can tell that hasn't changed much."

"I think he's doing just fine." Maggie smiled, returning her gaze to Becca, who was still watching the scene.

"You know he's 96 years old today if his birth certificate is any real indicator of actual age."

"So, he was actually born on the Fourth of July?" Maggie couldn't help but smile.

"Yes, and my parents would have him and Mrs. Rogers over every fourth for his birthday." Becca returned the smile. "This is the first year we've had him here since he came out of the ice. I suppose I have you to thank for that."

"What do you mean?"

"Do you think he would've come had I not insisted that he bring you as well?" Becca asked. "If you hadn't been here, he probably would've closed himself off up in that ugly Stark building looking for my brother or been out there with Samuel Wilson."

Maggie nodded. Becca wasn't wrong, but she could also understand not wanting to celebrate. That was all right too. She'd spent many birthdays either alone or refusing to celebrate all together. That was just a fact of life. _But he shouldn't be alone._

"I don't know." She sighed. "I'm glad that I was able to drag him out here today, but I get the feeling that I'm less of a friend and more of a painful reminder."

"You and me, both dear," Becca said sweetly.

"Oh," Maggie said shortly, her mouth forming around the word more than making an actual sound.

She looked at Becca. There were so many things that she wanted to ask. So many things she wanted to know, but now wasn't the right time.

"I think he needs a friend. I think he needs to be reminded that there is a life to be had after all of this, finding my brothers, and even the Avengers nonsense."

"Are you saying I should volunteer?" Maggie asked, chuckling lightly.

"I'm saying that you're halfway to it already." Becca smiled. "He likes you and respects you. It won't take much for you to be friends."

"I think he tolerates me because I'm useful."

"Do you think he would introduce you to his best friend's only living blood relative if he only tolerated you?" Becca asked.

Maggie opened and closed her mouth a few times.

"Finish up your hot dog, dear, Steven is headed this way." Becca grinned.

Maggie took the largest bite she could manage without choking as Steve walked up. "You almost ready to go?"

"Don't rush the poor girl, James had her running around talking to everyone most of the afternoon. Sit down, have another hot dog." Becca said, waving him into a seat across from them.

"We have to go soon, Bec. Stark is having a charity event tonight at the tower in honor of my birthday and the 4th of July."

Becca rolled her eyes. "You're really going to let Anthony Stark tell you what to do on your birthday?"

"He's my friend, Bec."

"You know I don't like him, didn't like his father either for that matter. Can't you just say you forgot?" Becca asked pointedly.

Maggie glanced between Becca and Steve. One of Becca's parting comments to Steve was always, 'You can tell Tony Stark he can kiss my ass.' There was a history there. What exactly it was Maggie couldn't be entirely sure, but she couldn't wait to see what was going to happen next.

"He's a damn warmonger from a family of warmongers ." Becca bit out.

"Only his father was involved in the industry, can't blame all of them." Steve corrected before glancing over at Maggie. "Becca was an anti-war activist during the Vietnam War, and an anti-nuke activist during the 80s, amongst other things," Steve said shortly as if that was supposed to explain anything.

Maggie opened her mouth, but the flow of conversation had already rushed past her before she could comment.

"Can you blame me, Steven?"

"No." He said, rising to his feet, he rounded the picnic table and stooped to kiss her gently on the cheek. "I don't. And as much as I'd love to give Stark the slip this evening, it's for a good cause.

Becca humphed, but nodded.

Steve chuckled, putting his hand on the woman's shoulder. "That trick never worked on me when we were kids, it's not going to work now." he leaned back down and kissed her on the forehead.

"Always worth a shot." She pecked him on the cheek. "Well, if you have to go, Ms. Maggie here is far too pretty to get away without taking a few photos," Becca said, as she started rummaging through her purse for her digital camera.

Maggie glanced at Steve uncertainly. "She knows she's not allowed to post any of them anywhere," Steve said, taking the camera from Becca.

"All right, tell us how you want us," Becca said.

They sat patiently as Steve adjusted and directed them. Once Steve had gotten the shot he wanted, Becca beckoned over the rest of the group. "Family photo." She told Maggie with a smile. "No arguing."

After arranging everyone, Steve took several shots. It had been forever since Maggie had posed for a group photo, never mind a family photo. There was the general joking, teasing, and laughing, and the awkward shuffling as they tried to get everyone into the frame. It was familiar, and a type of group solidarity only experienced during these types of things. Then as soon as Steve got his shots, it was over, and everyone dispersed. "All right, now we have to go and get ready for Stark's thing," Steve said, handing over Becca's camera.

"Oh no, not yet." Becca shook her head. "James, dear. Can you do me a favor."

James approached and took the camera from Becca, while Becca grabbed Steve's shirt and practically dragged him down on the bench beside her. "All right. Hold still." James chuckled, before snapping a few photos.

Maggie focused on the camera, but she managed to catch Becca murmur," Happy birthday, Stevie." before pressing a small gift-wrapped package against his chest.

"Thanks, Bec," Steve replied, his voice was so low that it was more of a rumble as he slipped the gift into a pocket.

_I'm invading this moment. I'm an outsider. _Maggie couldn't help but think, but she also couldn't help but be touched by the simple, honest emotion behind what she was witnessing.

"I think I got the shots," James said, handing the camera back to his mother.

"And now we _really_ have to go," Steve said.

Maggie wanted to protest, but she knew Steve was right. He had to go, and due to Hydra being a huge bag of dicks, she couldn't be out alone without an escort, which might take forever to acquire. Besides, she'd told him she'd run interference at the Stark thing, and as Becca had said, Steve needed a friend. "It was wonderful, thank you so much for inviting us," Maggie said, giving Becca a quick hug.

"Of course, always happy to have you. See you for our regular Monday lunch?" Becca asked as they hugged.

"Wouldn't miss it for the world." Maggie smiled as they broke apart. She turned to James, who was watching her closely. "It was lovely to meet you. I hope we get a chance to talk again soon." She said, extending a hand.

"You're in our family portrait, Ms. Ramirez. I think we can hug."

"Absolutely." Maggie chuckled as she was brought into an embrace.

The rest of the family gathered to say goodbye, and it was another forty-five minutes before she and Steve managed to pull themselves away, and Steve waved at the group as they drove away.

"So. How was that?" Steve asked breathlessly, glancing over at her.

"They're wonderful," Maggie answered. "I am ready for a drink, though." She admitted, rubbing her forehead. "It's been forever since I've been around that much family."

"Yeah. Me too."

"Wonderful, but a handful." Maggie sighed, sinking into the seat.

"And they like you."

"I dunno about _like_." She smiled. "But, it is nice to know I have the kids' blessing." Maggie paused.

She wanted to ask if he knew that Becca hadn't told her kids anything about their uncle. It made sense. She understood why Becca hadn't. She was right, for one. The past was dead and buried, sometimes that was the only way to cope with the pain. She looked up at Steve's face. Was that what he was doing? Burying the past inside of him? Bury it deep enough, and you don't have to act like it's there. That's why he'd introduced her to Becca and had the old woman pour her soul out to Maggie rather than having to do it himself. How had Steve known that Becca would open up to Maggie at all? It had been one hell of a hunch.

Maggie paused, thinking about James's words. _You've been there or at least somewhere similar. _They were fractured and broken in all the same ways: dead husband, dead brother, one loss after another. Yet, there was hope in this story, hope that perhaps this wasn't going to be her life forever. Becca had managed to overcome so much loss to achieve what Maggie had seen today, a loving, wonderful family, both of blood and bond gathered together in celebration. It felt like it had been forever since she'd had anything like that, and from the looks of it, it had been a long while for Steve too. _I'm going to make him my friend if it's the last damn thing I do._

"Becca really is a phenomenal woman. Thank you for introducing us." Maggie commented, breaking the amicable silence that had settled in around them.

"Of course." He nodded, glancing up and out the window toward their destination.

"Back to reality, huh?" She said dryly.

"If you wanna call this reality."

"Well, Steve. The offer stands. If you need me to run interference, I totally can." She tried to smile. The weight of the real world pushing down on them.

"I appreciate it," Steve said, politely.

"Of course, any time." Maggie smiled, feeling like she was beating against a plate of glass between her and Steve.

Then suddenly, for no reason at all, all of the goodwill, all of the happiness that she'd just experienced and felt seeped away, replaced by a dark, black, overwhelming grief. She'd been holding it back even the thought of it all day. She missed her friends. She missed her family. She missed her ranch and everything that entailed. She missed Bill and his hard-headed bullshit. She missed Suzanne's firm and sometimes unfriendly advice. She missedMike's gentle teasing, and the bad burgers and hotdogs he would've undoubtedly have made. She missed the songs around the campfire, played on her brother's old guitar, lost in the fire (not that she'd be able to play guitar any time soon for that matter either). She missed all of them so much that it felt like a hole opening like a chasm in her chest. What would they be doing today? Maggie didn't know.

_But there's hope._ She tried to remind herself as she glanced back over at Steve. _There is always hope. _

The car stopped, Steve helped Maggie out of the car, and they walked toward the elevator in silence. Entering the elevator, she waited until the doors closed before she turned and looked up at him. "Happy Birthday, Steve."

"Happy 4th of July, Ramirez," Steve replied.

And they rode in silence the rest of the way up to the chaos that awaited them.

For Steve, it had been a decent day so far, which was saying something, considering he hated celebrating his birthday. It wasn't so much that he disliked his birthday. It had just become more of a _thing_ since he'd become Captain America. The Proctor Family Cook Out had been a success. Bec hadn't made a big deal out of his birthday, and it seemed like Ramirez had enjoyed herself as well. As a bonus of sorts, Becca's children and assorted family had taken to Ramirez right away. It only made sense. People liked her. She was likable, friendly, and smart.

A knot twinged in his stomach. _Am I doing the right thing?_ That question loomed, ever-present, in the back of his mind. Particularly as it pertained to the presence of Magdalene Ramirez in their hunt for Bucky and now her involvement with Becca Barnes-Proctor. Ramirez's involvement with the case was unfortunate at the very best. The woman had lost her home, her business, her identity, and had been tortured by Hydra because she'd allowed Bucky to sleep in her barn. Then, when she'd still been recovering in the hospital, she'd volunteered to help track him down, for reasons that were still unclear to him. She'd said she wanted answers, wanted closure and had wanted her sacrifice to mean something.

At the time that had made just about as much sense as anything else, and with a fresh trail leading northward, her assistance on the case had seemed the logical thing to do. Sam had been pissed when he'd found out that Ramirez had volunteered and that Steve had accepted, but as she'd stated, Sam wasn't the boss of her, and she'd firmly stood her ground. _It'll only take a few weeks, a month tops._ Steve had reasoned, they'd been hot on his trail, and they'd had several promising leads.

Only now it had been two months, and not only had they not found Bucky, but Ramirez was taking on a more substantial role in their effort to find him. She had informed him a few weeks ago that she considered herself 'on-call,' and so if he ever needed anything, she'd be around 24/7.

'You really think I have anything better to do, Steve?' She'd teased when he'd protested.

The comment stung. She was here, indefinitely, at his disposal until they found Bucky, or until it didn't matter if they _did_ find him. But he wasn't going to think about that.

Steve shoved his hands in his pockets, his fingers fiddling with the wrapping paper of the gift that Becca has given him. He hadn't opened it yet. He hadn't had the time or the mental energy to prepare himself for whatever it was that Becca had given him. When they'd been kids, they'd had a no gifts policy. Mostly because they'd been poor, but still, Steve could sense Ramirez's hand in all of this.

That was another thing. One of the unexpected results of Ramirez's presence was that Becca was, in some small part, involved in the process to bring Bucky home. Had he made the right decision, introducing Ramirez to Becca? How would Bucky feel about Steve getting his little sister involved in all of this? How would Bucky feel about Steve introducing Becca and Ramirez? It was difficult to know, and besides, it was too late now. The only way to find out was to find him. Then they could sort everything else out afterward.

Steve's phone buzzed, and he pulled it from his pocket to find a text from Ramirez.

'Hey, I know I'd said I'd run interference, but the music is a little loud for me. I'm up on the roof if you'd like to join me. ~MR'

It was a simple invitation. There was no threat of coercion like there'd been for the party. Instead, it was an open offer with zero expectations. That was usually the case with their interactions, now that he thought about it. From the first day they'd met, Ramirez had expressed zero expectations. Not about how long this was all going to take, not about what her role was going to be, not about what she was going to get out of this whole thing. Zero expectations. Was that her way of avoiding disappointment? Have no expectations, and you won't be disappointed?

The music spiked, and Steve winced. It was loud, there were too many people, most of them he didn't know, or didn't want to talk to presently, and the air felt hot and stifled. He could go back to his apartment. It would be quite there and _highly_ unlikely that there would be people he'd have to talk to.

Yet, the very thought of going back there made Steve's skin feel clammy, as the feeling of walls closing in settled around him.

_Ramirez mentioned needing a drink_. Steve slipped through the party, silently knicking a rather expensive looking bottle of champagne and a couple of champagne glasses before taking the elevator to the roof.

The doors opened, and he was greeted with a gust of warm night air and the sounds of the city far below them.

"So I see you decided to join me!" He turned toward the sound of Ramirez's voice to find her reclining comfortably on one of the two chaise lounge chairs, a small table between them. Ramirez had kicked off her shoes, and her purse was beside her. Her dark eyes were watching him intently, but a small smile graced her lips, which still had lingering traces of red lipstick that had long rubbed off.

"It was getting loud. Could use the fresh air." He said as he approached. "Mind if I join you?"

"Not at all. I _did _invite you up here." She said and watched as he sat down, straddling the chaise lounge chair and set the bottle of champagne and glasses down. The chilled champagne flutes immediately fogged up in the muggy night air. "You read my mind." She commented.

"Would you like some?"

"I'm not going to be drinking alone, am I?"

"I did bring two glasses."

Ramirez nodded, and he went about the business of opening the champagne and poured them both glasses. She took hers and nodded appreciatively, taking a sip. They sat a moment in companionable silence as they both sipped from their glasses. "Any word from Sam?" She asked, breaking the silence.

Steve hesitated. What exactly did she know about him and Sam, or what Sam had even told her to begin with? Steve knew that Sam and Riley had been partners in a polyamorous relationship that involved Ramirez, but what would she think of Sam being involved with someone like him?

He decided not to risk it. "No update." He said finally.

"But he did text to wish you a happy birthday, right?" She asked.

"Yeah." Steve nodded.

"That's good. I'm glad." She paused, taking a quick drink from her glass. "He's a good man. A good person."

There was something pained about her expression as she said it. Something that she was holding back. '_Besides, I have plenty of shit I could hold over his head that I don't like that he's involved with. You, for instance.' _That's what she'd told him the first time they'd met. Did she know? Had she figured out that something was going on between him and Sam? Did she disapprove? Of course, she did, she was Riley's widow, the widow of Sam's former partner, of Sam's lover.

Steve braced himself for the addendum, for the 'but' for the 'you're lucky to have him,' the 'you hurt him I hurt you' speech, but it didn't come. No, she'd been professional thus far, and if he knew her, she wouldn't change that now, regardless of her personal feelings.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of rocket fire, and Steve flinched, eyes draw up to the overcast sky, his body preparing for whatever attack was going to come.

Ramirez's voice brought the rooftop back into focus. "Huh. I thought it was too overcast for them to shoot off fireworks."

_Damn it._ He winced, glancing over at Ramirez, who was pouring herself another glass of champagne. "Top off, Steve?" She inquired

"Sure." He extended the glass to her, watching as she poured.

"Seems strange they're still launching fireworks off. I never could stand them, and I never would've dreamed of using them during Last Chance's 4th of July and New Year's celebrations." Ramirez commented, voice distant as she set the bottle back down and picked her glass of champaign back up. Her gaze wandered to an unknown vantage point, frowning before she muttered "Fuck." under her breath before she downed the entire glass in a single, long draw.

Steve starred, opening and closing his mouth a few times before looking down into his glass and then back up at her.

"Sorry." Ramirez shook her head, blinking rapidly. "I think a part of me is still there, thinking through what I would be doing if I were there today."

"You have nothing to apologize for," Steve replied, doing everything he could to not wince again at the sound of another firework launching.

"It is a shame you never got to see the ranch in its heyday. You were only there long enough to pull me out of a burning house." She said, setting down the glass she reached for the champagne bottle, her handshaking.

"Let me help you with that," Steve said, picking up the bottle before she could grab it, poured her another, much smaller pour.

"You cutting me off, Captain?" Ramirez asked sharply, shooting him a look.

He made a vague consolatory gesture and poured a little more. "I'm sorry that we missed your April cookout. From what Sam has told me, they were a lot of fun." He commented, setting the bottle down.

"He…he mentioned them?" She stammered her expression somewhere between bewilderment and disbelief.

"You did invite us, didn't you?"

"Well, yes, but do you know how many times I'd asked Sam to come and visit the Ranch since Riley passed?"

Steve shook his head no.

"A lot. Something always "came up." I assumed the same thing happened in April."

_Zero expectations._

She took another sip before continuing with a bright, brittle smile. "Can you imagine if you had shown up at the April cookout? How different things would be?"

_You wouldn't be here, and Bucky might not be on the run. _Then there was the guilt, ever-present, and always just below the surface. She was here because of him because he'd failed.

Steve wanted to say something. What could he say? I_'m sorry? _That was hardly sufficient for the sacrifices she'd made for Bucky, and by extension for him.

"This isn't your fault, you know." She commented, taking a small sip of champagne.

"What?" Steve again found himself staring. Had she read his mind, or was it that obvious?

Maggie opened her mouth to speak but paused at the sound of fireworks. She waited for them to pass before she continued. "What happened to me…what happened to him, it's not your fault."

_If I'd stopped him in D.C., we wouldn't even be having this conversation. _Steve wanted to protest, wanted to argue, but the look in her eyes, the fierce expression told him that he would lose. Several more fireworks went off, illuminating the sky in a fog.

"Steve." Ramirez began slowly in a break in the barrage of fireworks. "I think this whole situation would be a whole lot better if you and I could somehow find our way to being friends."

Steve hesitated. "What do you mean?"

"I mean. I dunno. Sam's gone a lot, and when you're not doing your Avenging gig, you're in the gym beating up punching bags." She said, clutching her left hand to her chest. "Meanwhile, I'm involved in this extreme difficulty level "Where is Waldo" game without much contact with the outside world, beyond having lunch with a very ornery 84-year-old Brooklynite. I think it would be nice to be able to see some of the city, visit some of the museums, some of the sights with a local I don't have to get security clearance to leave the tower with."

"Sounds like you have this all thought out." Steve managed dryly.

"Well, I have had a lot of time to think, Steve." She paused, chewing on the corner of her mouth as if deciding if she wanted to say what she was going to say. "I've been pretty miserable recently, and I'm doing my best to find ways to not be so miserable. I thought maybe we could find a way not to be miserable together."

Steve chuckled, shaking his head. She wasn't wrong. "What did you have in mind?"

There was another explosion overhead, and Maggie's eyes went from the sky to him. "We could go downstairs, watch some telenovelas, and eat ice cream. No loud noises, no parties, no one drunkenly singing you a happy birthday. Or I can pop some popcorn, and we can watch a movie. Something quiet."

That sounded nice. It sounded really nice, actually. "Sure," He nodded. "That sounds like a plan."

Ramirez rose to her feet and started collecting her stuff. "I'll go down before you, just to avoid too much attention. And so I can get stuff ready."

"I'll meet you down there in twenty minutes."

"And I'll hold you to is Steven Rogers." She smiled, patting him on the shoulder as she passed him on her way to the elevator.

_She wants to be my friend. _And for whatever reason, the thought made him smile.

Waiting for the elevator doors to close, Steve dug the small gift-wrapped package from his pocket and opened it on his lap. There was a note with a set of watercolors and a gift card to one of the local art shops. The note read _'_Happy Birthday Stevie. I don't know if you paint anymore, but I know these used to be your favorite. Go, make something beautiful. Love, Bec.'

Carefully rewrapping the gift, he returned it to his pockets and looked up at the sky, stars obscured by clouds, flashes of Red, White, and Blue in the air, feeling both 29 and 96 at the same time. A strange place to be, and yet here he was.

* * *

A/N: Wasn't that fun? I hope you all enjoyed! A little bit of Steve and Maggie, a bit of Bucky doing research, a bit of family, a bit of fun. (This chapter had EVERYTHING). Look forward to bringing you the next chapter, and hope to hear what you all thought!

Until Next time, Happy Reading!


	16. Little Girls With Sharp Teeth

Author's Notes: Marvel owns what it owns, and I own what I own, let's keep it that way shall we? Don't Sue me!

Recommended Listening: Time in A Bottle by Jim Crose and Black Dirt by Sea Wolf

* * *

Chapter 16: Little Girls With Sharp Teeth

"So there we were. Bucky without a stitch of clothing, Mrs. Fanny McGregor getting ready to faint, and me no more than nine or ten trying to make sure no one woke up mother." Becca said through peals of laughter.

Maggie was sprawled out on the couch across from Becca, her side aching from the laughter.

"Fortunately, I was able to deescalate the situation, and exchanged a month of chores in exchange for her not telling our mother what she'd seen."

"That. Was. Beautiful." Maggie managed between several gasps for air, as she wiped at the tears streaming down her face

"Not as beautiful as my brother's expression being caught on the front stoop by our extremely elderly neighbor and his kid sister completely naked."

"Oh, Jeezus." Maggie wheezed between laughs. "Did he ever tell you what happened to his clothes?"

"No. And he swore me to absolute secrecy. I wasn't to tell a soul." Becca explained, taking a sip from her glass. She paused, her expression thoughtful. "I think this is the first time I've told anyone that story."

Maggie stopped laughing and sat up to catch her breath. She knew that tone, the long lost memories that come back to punch you in the gut at the most unexpected times. "I appreciate mortifying stories. I have a number of them personally. Most of them involve being stinking drunk. It's wonderful to know that stupid bullshit isn't a new invention." She said slowly.

"Oh, you young people have nothing on what we got up to back then. We were poor and had nothing to do but get into trouble." Becca smiled. "I think you and I would've gotten on like a house on fire if we'd known one another back then."

"Well, I imagine you and I would get into a lot more trouble now if I weren't on house arrest and down a hand." Maggie returned the smile.

"Oh, if I was twenty years younger, perhaps."

Maggie opened her mouth to speak and closed it again, grabbing one of the frozen grapes from the bowl on the coffee table, popped it in her mouth. Some things didn't require a response, and this was one of them.

After the 4th of July picnic, she'd been spending more time on Becca's couch, whiling away the long summer days. It was a welcome break from the monotony of the tower. Occasionally she got a funny story out of Becca about James Barnes or Steve Rogers before the war. Today's story had been particularly amusing, and if she was honest with herself, she'd needed a good laugh. It had been a week for bad news, particularly as it pertained to her. Her hand would be in the cast for eight more weeks, with little good news about the rest of her prognosis. Naturally, Sam was out of town, and Steve didn't need to deal with her shit, so she'd headed over to Becca's for their usual lunch date, and the older woman had sensed that she needed a pick me up. It was challenging to know what to say to that, though. Growing up, Maggie had never thought she'd make it to thirty, never mind live through what she had thus far. What could she possibly say to someone who had live through as much as Becca had?

"I have to say Magdalen dear, while it's a shame that you're cooped up with this old bird. It's been a pleasure having you around," Becca said with a small, almost sad smile.

Maggie nodded, reflexively reaching for the chain around her neck, stringing her fingers through the gold bands. "I've enjoyed being around." She managed.

"Your heart is heavy today, and you're a thousand miles away," Becca commented gently as she moved from her chair to sit beside her on the couch. "You want to tell me what's going on? Maybe I can help."

"Oh. I'm just being stupid." She shook her head.

"No, you're just being mean to yourself," Becca commented, putting a hand on her shoulder. "Whatever it is, I'm almost positive I've heard it before. You've met my children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. I've seen and heard a few things in my time."

Maggie sighed, rubbing her face wearily. "I miss being home. It's been nearly four months. I didn't think it was going to take this long. I just want my life back."

"That's not stupid at all," Becca said.

"I don't know. I think Sam thinks it's a good thing I'm away from the ranch. That'll it'll help me move on from...from losing Riley."

"How long where you married?"

"Pardon?"

"You still wear your wedding bands around your neck."

"Oh." Maggie paused, her hand returning to the worn golden bands. "Five years."

"KIA?"

"Yes, Ma'am." Maggie could feel herself slipping into the grieving widow's club persona she'd developed when she'd gone to the support group.

"Gabriel was as well." Becca nodded. "Truly one of my greatest loves." She glanced up, meeting Maggie's gaze. "Young, foolish love." Maggie couldn't respond. What was there to say? "What was he like? Your husband, I mean." Becca inquired.

Maggie exhaled slowly. It had been a long time since anyone had asked her to talk about Riley. Sam was really the only person she spoke to about him. Even then, Sam had to be in a particular mood. Where exactly could she begin? "He is...was one of the sweetest men I've ever had the chance to know and love." Maggie started slowly. "He was probably better suited to the life of a school teacher or a professor, but every Underdahl man had served their country for three or four generations and so he was going to too. He was a hopeless optimist, always laughing and smiling and making sure Sam and I didn't take ourselves too seriously."

"Samuel Wilson?"

"The very same."

"Tell me about him."

Maggie paused. How best to explain Sam Wilson and their relationship to Riley to a woman born in the 1930s.

"He was Riley's wingman," Maggie said slowly.

"And I take it he and Sam were a package deal," Becca commented knowingly.

"Something like that."

"I always thought that would be the case with my brother and Steven. That they would be a package set if they decided to marry, beyond one another, I mean. Inseparable. Polyamory? I believe you young people call it. Back when my son was coming age, it was called free love."

Maggie's face must have looked as surprised as she felt because Becca continued. "One of my grandchildren came out as trans, and another as bisexual. It was unfortunate to find out they were concerned with what I would think. We all had to do some research, but it was a wonderful experience learning and helping them actualize who they are. I do wonder how things might have been different if things had been as open back when I was a child, coming of age."

"It's still not great," Maggie said dryly.

"No. I know. A number of my children and grandchildren are a result of parents kicking their children out." Becca said sourly. "I don't understand it."

"Neither do I."

Becca opened her mouth to speak but stopped, a knowing expression on her face. She wasn't an idiot, and Maggie knew the older woman could work out the meaning behind her words. "You lost your whole world when he died, didn't you?" Becca commented.

"He was the glue that held all of us together. Me, Sam, and Riley." Maggie paused, exhaling sharply, had to blink as her vision started to blur. "They were my boys." She managed, her voice squeaky and small.

"You are a brave woman. Magdalen."

"No. I just did what had to be done." Maggie said, shaking her head. "That doesn't make me exceptional. I've lost no more than anyone else."

Becca smiled sadly. "My mother said almost the same thing. Had the stiffest upper lip I've ever seen, and I come from a family of professional stiff upper lips. First, with my brother and then my father, we Barnes women were expected to soldier on. She never complained, never talked about the grief she must've felt. I learned a lot from her. Both good and bad." It wasn't pity in her voice. Maggie would know that a mile away. It was understanding from someone who had been through much of the same. "She was an amazing woman. You remind me a lot of her. The strength and grace you carry yourself with, despite everything you've been through. You would've gotten along. My sisters would've liked you too."

"What happened to your sisters. If you don't mind me asking."

"Oh, Abigail died of breast cancer in 1991, and before that, Rachel died in a car crash, 1977."

"I'm sorry."

"I appreciate your sympathy, dear ." Becca smiled sadly. "All of this to say, I know and understand what it's like."

"Thank you." Maggie nodded.

"So, tell me more."

"About?"

"Your Riley. About the good times."

The good times. That felt so long ago now she wasn't sure if she could remember what they were, or what it had felt like. She closed her eyes, struggling even to remember the sound of his voice. She'd only just listened to his audio letters a few days ago. Did he exist outside of those letters, those moments trapped in time? Could she remember his annoying traits along with those captured on audio? Was she losing him again? Before she could slip into a panic, she opened her eyes, meeting Becca's thoughtful, patient expression, and cleared her throat.

"What's there to say? He was my idiot, white boy. Gringo to boot. But he was mine." Maggie began slowly. "He couldn't cook to save his life, although he did try to cook for me when I was sick or just too tired to make an effort. It was very well-intentioned. He was a master at ordering take out and cleaning up the kitchen. He always did his part to make the house feel like home, and he was so tender with me. He would always rub my feet or massage my shoulders whenever I asked, or whenever the mood struck him that I needed a back rub because I was always the one doing all of the heavy manual labor. He always tried to make sure that the fridge was well stocked and would help me put together grocery lists whenever he was away. On the weekends, when he and Sam were on leave, they would take care of my chores for me and make sure I got a chance to sleep-in. Then when I did wake up, they made sure I got breakfast in bed." She smiled, chuckling softly at the memory of Sam and Riley bickering about who got what chores. "Riley loved watching movies. He'd organize movie nights, where we'd all get to chose a movie, and we'd draw lots to see what order we'd watch our movies. I think he always fixed it because he always drew the last straw, and Sam and I were always asleep by opening credits of his film."

"What would you watch?"

"Oh, all sorts of things. Sam was always in for a good buddy cop or road trip movie, I liked action movies or a good biopic if given a chance, and Riley, ever the romantic, liked the classic films or documentaries if given a second choice. We were going to do a binge of the American Film Institutes's 100 greatest films when they got back from tour. When he was on leave." She paused, feeling the lump form in her throat.

"But you never got the chance." Becca filled in the blank with a nod.

"Yeah. Tried to do it on my own but could never get through Citizen's Kane."

"Oof. That one was rough to watch even when it came out. The biggest drama was that Orson Wells had based the story on William Randolph Hearst, and there was a whole big stink about it. Still a wretchedly boring movie." Becca paused. "I was too young to understand most of what was going on when Bucky took Steve and me to see it. You should ask Steve about it. He had some strong feelings about it."

"I'm not sure he'd talk to me. He doesn't like to talk about the past, not with me."

"Don't take it personally. It isn't you." Becca stopped again to find her words. "I think he very much tries to forget who he was, before all of this. And I think it's easier for him because he was gone for so long. Unfortunately for those of us who took the long road of history, some things are harder to forget. Then again, the pain is easier to manage too. Which is why I'm glad to see someone like Samuel Wilson in his life, and of course you too dear."

"Just in a different capacity," Maggie said.

"Of course." Becca agreed. "Have you seen Steven's artwork?"

"No. I mean, yes. I've seen some of the stuff from like Museum exhibits, but none of his most recent work."

"Would you like to see some of my private collection?"

"Personal collection?" Maggie raised a mischievous eyebrow.

"Steve corresponded with me during the war when he was on tour and of course after that. I managed to save some of them. He would also include drawings since they weren't allowed to send photographs with anything that might compromise their position. Would you like to see them?"

"I would love to."

Becca rose and shuffled off to one of the back rooms, returning minutes later with a flat, slender box, an archival box. "Sit right there," Becca instructed as Maggie started to rise to help her.

Maggie put up her hands in surrender as Becca settled back down on the couch beside her, clutching the box to her. "You have to promise not to tell anyone what you see."

"Why's that?" Maggie furrowed her brow together.

"My dear. Captain America's wartime drawings of his best friend, who also happens to now be a known international war criminal? The Smithsonian would be after my head for withholding them, never mind that those drawings could go for millions at auction. Particularly with all the renewed interest." She said. She was trying to be funny, but the pain behind the words was palpable.

"Promise." Maggie smiled gently.

"Alright." Becca placed the box delicately on Maggie's lap.

Pulling off the lid, Maggie removed the first layer of tissue paper, revealing the top pencil sketch. It was James Barnes all right, in Steve's interpretation of the famous Howling Commandos jacket. He was laughing, his eyes squinty and crinkly with laugh lines. A sniper's rifle slung over his shoulder. Maggie had seen a similar drawing in the Smithsonian. This one, however, was far more finished, polished with an artist's mark and caption. "Sergeant Barnes laughs at one of 'Cap's' bad jokes." The next one was again of Bucky, but this time, it was one where he wasn't addressing the artist's gaze. He was wearing his famous Howling Commando's jacket. Steve, however, had drawn him graver this time. Bucky's jaw was clenched, heavy rings around his eyes, more of a slump in his posture. "A bad day." Is what Steve had called it. The third was Bucky asleep, face relaxed and free of lines and care. He almost looked angelic, hair falling over his face. "Snow White, waiting for true love's first kiss." Steve's elegant script announced, followed by presumably Bucky's tidy scrawl "Ha Ha Rogers, very funny, you punk." There were several others.

Bucky and the Howling Commandos. Bucky and Steve. Margaret Carter and Bucky in an almost study format. The last one, however, made Maggie pause. It was Bucky and Steve. Only there were no Howling Commandos insignias, no signs of Captain America. Instead, it was Bucky and Steve from before the war. It looked like they were sitting on a beach. Steve's face was gaunt and sickly, Bucky's face boyish and round, eyes vibrant and bright, their arms slung around one another. It was dated around January 1945. Only a few weeks perhaps even days before Barnes would fall from the train. Maggie glanced down at the caption, which simply read, "Just in case."

Maggie swallowed hard to fight back the tears that threatened to choke her. Just in case. She knew what that meant. Just in case we don't make it, this is how we want you to remember us. And now here they were. Steve Rogers, Captain America, and Bucky Barnes...well up until recently, he would've just been Steve Roger's best friend and Howling Commando. Now, Barnes was the Winter Soldier. Infamous. All signs, all hints of the young men in the drawing reduced to fading pencil marks and even foggier memories. She looked up at Becca, who was watching her intently. "How much of him is left to save, Magdalene?"

Becca's words made her flinch. Maggie had known that sooner or later, they would end up here. She'd wanted to avoid that, wanted to avoid telling Becca what she'd seen. She'd asked Becca, the first day they'd met, to tell her about her brother so that Maggie didn't have to think about the man that had slept in her barn, the man with the metal arm, the man who had ruined her life.

"I've done my research, Steven won't talk about it, but I know, I know that something has happened to him, something horrible." Becca looked away and down at the drawing on Maggie's lap. "He wants to protect me. He thinks he's protecting me by not telling me what he knows, but it isn't protection." She glanced back up at Maggie. "You've spent the most time with him, you know some of what he's become, and you won't lie to me. Tell me what my brother has become."

What could she say? What did Becca want to hear? The truth, that's what she wanted, but did Maggie even have the truth? Did she even have a partial truth? She couldn't rightly say. She'd been given half of a brief, less than half of a brief, and had set about trying to find him. Anything and everything beyond that had come from Becca. While Maggie trusted Becca, Becca's information was 70-year-old recollections of the brother had been, not the man who'd crawled half emaciated into Maggie's barn. But trauma changed people. She knew that. Becca knew that. They all knew that. So what could she say to this woman about her brother? The man that Maggie had met barely resembled a person, never mind the man represented in pencil and paper before her laden with memories.

Maggie paused, chewing on the corner of her mouth. "If I'm honest, I've really tried to avoid thinking too hard about the man I found in my barn." She began haltingly. "He isn't the first half-dead, half-starved man who's stumbled onto my property. Several of my very good friends and volunteers started that way back when Riley was still alive. He was very sick for al lot of the time he was with me. But he was eager to help when he could be. When he found out that my barn roof was leaking and in need of repair, he replaced it for me without payment."

"He always was very handy. He was an odd-jobs man before the war, and when work at the docks was slow." Becca said softly.

"That makes a lot of sense. It was frustrating that he wouldn't take money from me." Maggie nodded and focused back down on the drawing.

Steve had managed to capture Bucky's eyes, and they shone even though it was just graphite. She wanted to reach out and touch the carefully drawn lines as if that would somehow make it, make him real. He was real, though, and although the portrait held none of the anger and fear that the man in her barn and outbuilding had exhibited, there was the same intensity to them.

"He was very quiet and watchful like he was sizing me up. Patient and still. I suppose that made him an effective sniper during the war and well after he fell from the train. I could sense he was dangerous and that he was capable of hurting me, but I never felt afraid. Perhaps I should have been, perhaps that might have spared me and my ranch everything that I've gone through since then, but I knew that as much as he was a danger to me, he was almost more of a danger to himself." Maggie shook her head. "He's scary and dangerous, and I think part of the reason Steve is so determined to find him is because he could hurt someone, even unintentionally." She paused. Trying to find her thoughts. "But..." She said slowly. "He was afraid. He was so afraid. And yet he still stuck his neck out for me, helped out around the ranch. There was something truly...compassionate about him. I ..." Maggie shook her head again, running her fingers through her hair. "I don't know how much of your brother is left, I couldn't say, even with the time that I spent with him. But I do know that there is someone there worth trying to help still left in there."

Becca watched her, a firm grit to her jaw, a look of determination on her face, bracing for the worst. Then when Becca realized there wasn't anything more that Maggie was going to say, she nodded and exhaled slowly. "Thank you. For your honesty and for looking for my brother. Particularly after everything that you've been through because of him."

"I do my best." Maggie managed. What was she supposed to say? She slid the wedding bands along the chain, thoughtfully, trying to come up with something more she could say.

"It won't hurt this way forever."

"What?" Maggie made eye contact with Becca.

"Someday you'll be able to take off those wedding bands without feeling like you're removing a part of yourself. Not today, not for a while yet, but eventually, it won't hurt quite so much." Becca said gently.

Maggie could feel her grip on the bands tighten, but she said nothing.

"I'm sorry that you're hurting. And if there is anything that I can do to help to ease that ache, you need but ask."

Maggie nodded, clearing her throat before she spoke. "Thank you."

"Of course." Becca pat her on the knee, before gently returning the drawings to their box and covering them with tissue paper. Returning them to the place she'd retrieved them from, Becca stopped as she looked at the time on the massive wall clock. "Oh gracious, is that the time?"

"Yeah. I believe so."

"Well, I'm afraid I have to kick you out. While I do enjoy our lunches, dear, I have a doctor's appointment that I need to get ready for." Becca said.

"Everything okay?"

"Oh, you know. Usual stuff. Getting old isn't what it's cracked up to be." Becca waved her hand dismissively.

"We still on for lunch Thursday?"

"Absolutely. I wouldn't miss it for anything."

"Sounds good." Maggie collected her things, stowing them in her satchel before rising to her feet and crossing the room to where Becca was standing.

"Is your security person around? I know Steven gets a little touchy about that sort of stuff. I can have my guy drop you off if you need me too."

"He isn't. But there is an ice cream shop down a few blocks. I'll walk down there and have Fabian pick me up there. It isn't a problem." She smiled. "I could use the fresh air and exercise."

Becca offered two more times to have her security person drop her off at the tower, but Maggie made it out the door and down the road toward the ice cream shop. Becca had told her about soda fountains. Namely, all the times Bucky and Steve had taken her out for a soda, ice cream, or a malt. In late August it was sweltering, and the heat rose in waves off of the concrete, and a scoop of ice cream would be the perfect solution to a long trek back to the tower. Fortunately, given the time of day, the streets were less crowded than they would be at peak rush hours, so she was able to stroll comfortably down to the ice cream shop. Minutes later, she re-emerged with a scoop of vanilla bean with a cinnamon swirl in a waffle cone in lieu of a butter pecan (which they'd unfortunately been out of).

_Do I really want to call Fabian? The subway stop is well within walking distance. _

She knew Sam would be unhappy, particularly that he wouldn't like that she'd been out without her security detail. But it was a beautiful day, and while the late August heat was crushing down, she had ice cream, and she wanted to think.

_Steven wants to protect me._ Becca's words were scathing and stinging. Maggie wasn't entirely sure what to make of it all. Thus far, she'd tried not to. It was easier to think of Barnes in the context of Becca and Steve. Or even abstractly as a prisoner of war or a soldier missing in action. It was better than thinking about murder-death-machine she'd seen the day Hydra had ruined her life.

She sighed, a persistent ache behind her eyes. _You really should try to get more sleep._ The little voice in the back of her head reminded her, with the slightest tone of irritation.

It didn't matter what she thought of Barnes, or what Steve was or wasn't doing. At some point, she was going to have to reconcile the two, the man and the weapon, the prisoner and the soldier, the person and the myth. First, she'd walk to the subway, eat her ice cream, and do her best to enjoy not being killed by Hydra.

Maggie paused at the sound, of- the sound of nothing.

Something felt wrong.

It was too quiet. The sounds of the street, the sounds of the city, had melted away into nothing. She glanced around, the street deserted, and her stomach twisted. _You should've called Fabian. You've made a mistake._ She'd been stupid, and foolhardy and now she was going to pay.

She started walking faster. Not that it would make a difference if they wanted to take her. There wouldn't be anything she could do to stop them.

Terror pounded in her throat, and she could smell smoke and see the angry evil on the face of the hydra agents. What would she say? What would they make her say? She knew a lot more than she had back in April, she was more of a target now than she had ever been, and she'd been the idiot who hadn't called her security detail.

So what could she do? Running wasn't going to deter them, so, therefore, her only option was to fight.

Maggie turned just in time to see none other than Natasha Romanoff drop between her and an oncoming assailant who was wielding a truncheon and a taser. She didn't scream. She didn't have a chance to work up a good scream. It was over before it started, and before she could so much as inhale, there were half a dozen Hydra goons strewn out on the sidewalk.

Romanoff turned to look at her, leveling a sharp, decisive gaze on her just as the scoop of ice cream fell from the cone and onto the sidewalk with a wet splat.

"Leave it. We have to move." The agent said, grabbing her arm, they walked along the streets a quick pace, her eyes scanning the perimeter, for what Maggie didn't want to know and hoped they wouldn't find out.

A transmission crackled in the agent's earpiece, and a nondescript black suburban pulled up, and several men dressed in black climbed out, nodding at Natasha. Among them was Fabian, who gave Maggie a critical and disapproving look.

Maggie climbed wordlessly into suburban, and the agents followed, Natasha sitting shotgun, they started their silent ride back to the tower.

Maggie could hear her pulse pounding in her ears and feel it behind her eyes. Her whole body felt like it was shaking, her right hand sticky from where the ice cream had melted. She focused on the road in front of her, following the route she was taking, prepared if necessary to brace for impact or duck. Her brain was screaming a non-stop stream of profanities. It was the only thing that could keep her focused.

When they arrived in the Tower garage, Maggie released a breath she didn't realize she was holding. Clambering from the vehicle, Maggie came to face with Romanoff, who was waiting for her.

"I'm going to escort you back to your apartment." She said flatly. Panic must've crossed her face because Romanoff added, "You're not in trouble."

Maggie nodded wordlessly, and Romanoff walked her the elevator. They maintained silence until they reached her apartment when Romanoff produced a universal key, "May I?" She motioned with her head to the door. "I'd like to clear your apartment."

"Sure," Maggie said, the sickly taste of stomach bile stinging in the back of her throat.

"On my six," Romanoff ordered, and Maggie slid into place behind her.

There was a breathless moment as the door swung open, and they walked silently from room to room, checking behind every door before Romanoff touched her ear. "We're clear here."

Then, as if her body was rejecting everything about the situation, Maggie turned to the kitchen garbage can and threw up. Maggie squeezed her eyes shut, praying against all hope that when she opened her eyes again, Natasha Romanoff wouldn't be standing there, giving her a disapproving look.

"It's not uncommon for your body to react that way after situations of high intensity." The other woman's voice cut through the silence like a knife as it drifted around her in the kitchen. "You were very disciplined during all of that." She added, turning on and off the water faucet, set a glass down beside her.

Maggie wasn't sure how to take 'you were very disciplined.' It could be a very backhanded compliment if you squinted hard enough. Straightening upright, she opened her eyes and wiped at her mouth before taking the glass of water in hand. "Thanks." She mumbled, taking a sip.

"Doesn't change the fact that you didn't call your security detail when you left the Proctor residence."

There it was, the slight note of chastisement, of ridicule. Not that it wasn't well deserved, it was more of a time and a place thing that Maggie had an objection to, and the underlying fact that Maggie didn't want to hear it. "Well, thank goodness I have you looking out for me," Maggie said with more of a twang than she'd intended.

"I don't think I can understate how dangerous Hydra is, or the lengths they'll go to re-obtain what they believe to be rightfully theirs. But I would be wasting my breath, considering."

"First-hand knowledge, one could even say," Maggie said dryly, glancing up at the other woman.

There wasn't anger, irritation, or even annoyance in her expression. There was, however, intrigue and perhaps concern on the super spy's face. Why? Maggie couldn't help but wonder. What was she to Romanoff? Why did she care? This was, after all, Natasha Romanoff, super-spy, Black Widow, Avenger, and bonafide badass. Maggie knew the woman could break her with her pinky finger without any effort. Yet, there was something nearly tender, perhaps even vulnerable about the way the woman was looking at her now.

"Why are you doing this?" Romanoff asked.

That question. Maggie hated the question, mostly because she didn't have a good answer, at least not one that didn't sound childish and asinine. "I cooperate, I help Steve find Barnes, Hydra stops looking for him and hunting me, I get to go home."

"Understandable," Romanoff said. "But do you actually believe you'll be able to walk away after all of this?"

Maggie didn't flinch, and Romanoff didn't blink. She wasn't asking to be cruel, it was an honest question, and it was one that had been slowly creeping and growing in the corners of her mind as the days had turned to weeks and then to months. "What is it that Steve is keeping from me about Barnes? Becca Proctor senses it, and I do too."

"That Barnes is dangerous."

"So I gathered."

"More than you could imagine."

"Try me. I have a fairly vivid imagination."

Romanoff opened her mouth to respond but hesitated as something very nearly approaching an amused passed over her face before she smoothed her features into a neutral expression. "You should be afraid." She said finally.

"Who's to say that I'm not?" Maggie replied.

"The more you know, the more of a target you make yourself," Romanoff explained.

"More than I already have? And anyway, why do you give a shit?"

There was a long pause as they sized one another up. Romanoff wasn't toying with her. Maggie knew what that looked like. No. This was something else, genuine concern, which was frankly more off-putting than if she'd just been playing cat and mouse with her in the first place.

"You did a good thing. A selfless thing. And you're being punished for it. Being pushed into a world, into a life that most don't choose for themselves." She said. "You could walk away at any time, why don't you?"

"You think I should."

"This isn't an easy life, and it's even more difficult to leave once you're in it."

"I'd rather be in control of my life than just wait around for someone else to come and save me. Witness protection or what have you didn't seem like I'd have options."

"That why you didn't call Fabian?"

"I didn't get him in trouble, did I?"

"There may be changes in how we run your security detail."

Maggie snorted. "What? You're not interested in using me as human bait? I'm collateral damage at best to people like you." There was more bitterness in her words than she'd meant, but it was true. It ultimately didn't matter what happened to her. She was just one piece, one part of a larger mission a larger objective that she was a part of, a mission focused on bringing Barnes home. What happened to her, and her life and her desires were utterly secondary to that, she knew. She just hoped that at the end of this, there would be enough of her left and enough of her life left to go back to.

"You're clever, which makes you more than just useful, and more dangerous than just bait. Which is why the more you know, the more of a target, the more of a threat you become."

"Is that why Steve is withholding information from me?"

"He wants to protect you."

"I don't feel protected."

"He wants to give you the ability to walk away if you want."

"I'd rather know what I'm getting myself into. I'd rather have the truth, the whole truth. So that I can make an informed decision."

Romanoff nodded, "Let me see what I can find."

"What?" Maggie stammered, doing her best to keep her mouth from dropping open.

"If you poke around indiscriminately, you may find things you're unprepared for, cross a point of no return accidentally. But you should know what you're up against, who you're facing. The truth, or a kind of truth, so that you can make an informed decision."

Maggie opened and closed her mouth. Why would you want to do that for me? She wanted to ask, but she wasn't sure if she wanted the answer. "Thank you." Maggie managed finally. "And thank you for coming to my rescue this afternoon."

"Those men may be of strategic value."

"Human bait? Agent Romanoff?"

"So to speak, Ms. Ramirez."

"I take it that won't be in my morning brief."

"Only if relevant."

Maggie rolled her eyes but nodded. "Well, if you have any pearls of wisdom, I'd be more than appreciative, Agent Romanoff."

"Code and encrypt your data, you don't want anyone off the street to be able to come in and read what you've been up to. And keep as much of it as you can hard copy. It's easier to destroy, harder to track that way."

Practical advice all around and Maggie couldn't help but notice, tailored to her particular lack of skills as a spy, soldier, or superhero. "Any suggestions on encryption and coding? Books I should read? Methods you'd recommend?"

"I can teach you some basics if you want."

"If you have the time and can spare a minute now, I would be tremendously grateful."

"Lead the way, Ms. Ramirez."

"Of course, Agent Romanoff."

Maggie led her to the office, the agent trailing behind at a respectable distance. _I'm getting spy lessons from the Black Widow._ Maggie wasn't sure if she should scream or swoon. Whatever the case, she couldn't help but think about what Romanoff had insinuated and what it meant. There was a point of no return. Did she cross it in the name of finding out the truth about Barnes? Or did she maintain her ignorance so that she could go home at the end of all of this? As this afternoon had shown, ignorance was not bliss, and no matter how far she stuck her head in the sand, there would always be a target on her back.

She knew she didn't have to cross the point of no return, not yet, not right now. But she also knew it was better to be prepared for when that moment comes when it inevitably would arrive. And if she couldn't rely upon Steve to give her the information she needed to make that decision, she would seek that information from anywhere and anyone who would.

* * *

I hope you enjoyed! I can't say this enough, but jeezus poor Mags! Next time we're going to get a bit of Bucky! I look forward to hearing what you think about this chapter!

As always, reviews are welcome and appreciated. Please help feed the plot bunnies (i.e., love and adore me, and you get updates faster). Happy Reading!


	17. Finding the Point of No Return

Author's Notes: Marvel owns what it owns, and I own what I own, let's keep it that way shall we? Don't Sue me!

Recommended Listening: "Big Iron" by Johnny Cash, "The Winter Soldier" by Henry Jackman, "Sound of Silence" by Simon and Garfunkel, "Run" by AWOL Nation, It's a Good Day by Peggy Lee, "Jukebox Saturday Night" by Glen Miller, "September" by Earth Wind and Fire, "Wake me Up When September Ends" by Green Day.

Honorable (or not so you make your judgment on that) Mention Recommendation: "Candyman" by Christina Aguilera

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Chapter 17: Finding the Point of No Return

This wasn't how he'd wanted this day to go. By his standards, he'd been having a relatively normal day, and normal was the best he could hope for on the best of days. He'd bought groceries, he'd eaten breakfast, and then he'd done research at the library. He'd remembered a bit more about his life before Hydra, a little bit about his family, his parents and his sisters, and a little bit about Rogers. He'd remembered how much he really hated eating boiled anything, but that he had a particularly strong hatred for boiled spinach. He'd remembered saving his pennies and buying candy bars to split with his sisters and Steve.

Unfortunately, with the good also came the bad. He'd spent the day remembering far more than he cared to about his time with Hydra. The cold. The hunger. The pain. The blood. But he'd also remembered more about _her_, the red woman, the Black Widow, Natasha Romanoff, or Natalia as he had known her back then.

She was now working with the Avengers, and with Steven Rogers to track him down and bring him in. Yet, he couldn't find it within himself to be angry or even frustrated by her interference. It was because of their unsanctioned relationship in the Red Room that he'd been able to avoid her and Hydra this long. He'd slowly remembered her, remembered them, and the network of safe houses, dead drops, and contacts they'd established as operatives for Hydra together. As a result, it meant that she knew all the locations where he might be, and where he'd head next. Or where he would be if he were acting as the Winter Soldier, as the man, the operative, the asset that had worked for Hydra all those years.

So he'd done his best to avoid all those places, all those safe houses, dead drops, and contacts. However, certain things couldn't be helped. Kyiv had information that he needed, and so he'd slowly made his way through Ukraine, aware that he was being followed, and doing his best to shake his tail. He thought he'd managed it. He'd moved quietly, erratically, at first not staying any one place more than a few days, then sometimes a week, trying to measure how close behind him they were. Now he'd been in Kyiv for almost two weeks.

Then, today, he'd seen them.

Rather, Hydra had let him spot them as he was leaving the library on his way home. When he'd seen the tag team, he known what he had to do, he hadn't even had to think about it. It was like a reflex, as natural and innate to him as breathing. He'd done it without question, a simple truth driving him. He wasn't going to let them take him alive, but he also would make the most out of the opportunity. He needed intel.

He'd managed to take one alive, removing the cyanide capsule from the man's back tooth before he could martyr himself.

He remembered that about Hydra agents. The precautions they took to avoid capture and information extraction. He and the Black Widow had trained together and trained other operatives on how to avoid detection and capture. He remembered watching some of the field agents have their cyanide capsule installed, as a last option should they be intercepted. He and Widow had never been given one, they were too valuable, and besides, when had they ever been caught? It was his observation that only mid-range operatives were given the capsule. Low-level operatives were ostensibly cannon fodder. They were expendable and often didn't know enough to be dangerous to Hydra. They didn't warrant a suicide pill. Middle-level operatives, however, like the unfortunate soul now zip-tied to a chair, knew enough to be dangerous to Hydra. They knew enough to be useful to him.

The one-room safe house they were currently occupying was dingy but was suitable for his purposes. The room was lit by a single bulb on a string suspended from the ceiling, and the bulb cast an eerie glow on the faded and peeling wallpaper. Making the man slumped in the chair in front of him look more waxy and inhuman than he thought possible. There was a small camp bed, the chair with the Hydra agent tied to it, a small table, the kitchenette, and a small fridge. The chair faced the bed, which is where he was sitting watching the man as he fought his way back to consciousness.

What exactly he was going to do to the agent when he awoke, he didn't want to think about that. He didn't want to think about it, because he _knew_ what he would have to do, and could feel the forces beyond his control, pushing him forward at a terminal and unstoppable velocity. Was it the training? Conditioning? Or just his nature? He knew what was going to come next, and he knew that he wouldn't turn away wouldn't flinch in the face of what had to happen.

_You don't have a choice. You have to do this. This is who and what you are._

But he didn't want it to be. He didn't want to be here, in this room, with this person, prepared to torture and kill for information. Yet here he was.

_He's not a man. He's a Hydra Agent. They've done worse to you. They will do worse to you if you let them capture you._

The man was stirring, straining against the restraints, making muffled noises through his gag, looking at him with an expression of anger and hatred, which only barely masked the fear.

"Do you know who I am?" He asked, his voice low and rough from disuse, the Russian words too familiar on his tongue.

The man gave a single firm nod.

"Good."

Fear overtook the anger and hatred on the man's face, but he didn't scream, didn't cry out, didn't plead. He was a professional, he was Hydra, and he would not disgrace himself in that way, which was a shame really because it might have inspired something other than hatred if he had.

"I am going to ask you questions. And it would be in your best interest to cooperate." The words were ragged as they passed his lips and died as they entered the soundproofed room. There was no echo, no menace, just the truth. "Do you understand me?"

Again, the Hydra Agent nodded.

He didn't want to do this, but he didn't have a choice. They'd hunted and tracked him like a wild animal, and if they got a hold of him, they would do far worse than just wipe his memory. They'd already done worse while trying to re-obtain him. He didn't want to think of the lengths they would go to bring him back into the ranks, or the consequences of when they did.

He couldn't delay any longer. There was nothing else for it. He was wasting valuable time. He would have to move again, but only after he extracted what he needed from the agent.

He removed his gloves, pausing to look at the metal prosthesis glinting in the dim light of the single bulb.

_Our past doesn't define us, but our choices now and today help shape our tomorrow...no one wakes up a good or a bad person._

Her voice rang out so clearly in his head it almost sucked his breath away. He stopped, blinking as he tried to expel the voice with a shaking breath. He couldn't think about her, not here, not now. Yet there she was.

_She'd been a good person. _The thought rang loud and clear. _And she'd died because of it._

He didn't plan on dying, not today.

He shoved the gloves in his pocket. Rising, he pulled the gag from the agent's mouth.

The man took a couple of deep, panting breaths, looking up squarely at him. The fear dissolved into hatred. "Who is your commanding officer?"

"You cannot escape us. There's nowhere you can run, nowhere you can hide where we will not find you." He said, his breathing, "You will never be rid of us." He knew he was going to die. These were the last brave words of a dead man.

He wasn't going to dignify that with a direct response and so he continued without pause. "How many Hydra cells are currently operating in Eastern Europe?"

"You should just kill me, it would be easier for both of us, or has the soldier had a change of heart?" He practically laughed, and there was something nearly sing-song to his voice as he continued. "I bet that little Mexican bitch made you think you could be something more than what we made you to be, didn't she, Soldat?"

His stomach lurched, and he made a move to grab the man by his collar, but stopped at the smirk on the man's face, reality dropping in around him like a ton of bricks. _I've made a mistake._

He dropped to the floor as a spray of bullets pierced the wall. The man, the tag team, they'd been bait, a distraction, and now they'd sent even more people to come and take him back to whoever was in charge. As he waited for the hail of bullets to stop, he could feel instinct and training take over, as his desire to survive overwhelmed any discussion of _morality._ He'd made a mistake, and he would not make another. There was no choice in this, only the absolute need to get away from Hydra, at whatever cost.

He glanced at the mangled blood body of what had once been his captive, and couldn't help but feel a momentary pang of pity and regret. _You were going to gut him like a fish, and he would've done the same to you in a heartbeat. _He tried to remind himself. _Yes, but it might have meant something if he'd managed to get intel off him._ Well, there was more where he'd come from.

Cut off one head, and two more would take its place. Or at least that's what he'd been told. So, for now, he'd keep running, and keep cutting and cutting until he found what he was looking for.

First, he'd have to make it out and to the next place without being captured. For now, all that mattered was survival, namely his own. That was the only thing that _could _matter.

_She was walking down a bustling street in Brooklyn. It was familiar, but distant like she_ _'d seen it all in photographs before. She was sure she had seen it in photographs. She was also vaguely aware that she was still her but different. Wearing clothing like she'd seen her grandmother and great-grandmother wear during the 1930s and 40s._

_"_ _Maggie! Maggie!" _

_ She turned around on the bustling street to see none other than Becca Barnes, no more than fifteen or sixteen, running toward her._

_"_ _Becca! Becca slow down!"_

_Maggie looked further down to see Steve following behind her, weaving through the crowds, an exasperated expression on his face._

_"_ _Steve and I were going to meet Bucky for a soda! You should come with us!" Becca said, grabbing Maggie's hand with her own._

_Maggie glanced over Becca's shoulder at Steve, who had finally fought his way through the crowd. _

_"Ms. Ramirez." Steve nodded. He was small, like in all the photos she'd seen of him before the war. Features gaunt, small, and frail as anything, but his eyes were bright, something truly mischievous and lively to them._

_ "_ _Mr. Rogers." She returned the nod, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth._

_"_ _Well, come on! Bucky's going to think we've forgotten." Becca grabbed Steve's arm with her free hand and locked arms with both of them._

_"_ _I don't see what the big deal is, Bec." Steve practically rolled his eyes. "It's not like Buck hasn't met a hundred of your friends before."_

_Becca rolled her eyes, sticking out her tongue. "Ignore him." She told Maggie. _

_Maggie laughed, "Steve has a point." She began, but Becca shot her a look. "Lead the way then."_

_They proceeded down the street with ease, despite walking three across, and before Maggie could make a comment of this, they were there, and Becca was leading the charge inside. Steve unlocked his arm with Becca, holding the door open for them. Maggie hesitated in the doorway._

_"Not nervous, are you?" Steve grinned devilishly._

_"Shouldn't I be, after everything that I've heard about the famous James Barnes."_

_"Don't worry. You're in no danger, I promise." Steve chuckled, patting her amicably on the shoulder._

_"_ _Thanks, Rogers."_

_"Any time, Ramirez." _

_They walked into the soda counter where Becca was talking with a man at the bar in low tones, edging on an argument. "I don't need you to pick up girls for me, Bec." _

_"_ _Is that what's happening? It would explain why I was virtually kidnapped and whisked away without so much as an explanation." Maggie cut in sliding onto one of the stools at the counter a few seats away from where the argument between Becca and her older brother was taking place._

_ "_ _A root beer, please." She removed the correct coinage from her handbag and handed it to the clerk, trying her damndest to ignore the conversation happening a few stools away._

_"That her?" Barnes mumbled, motioning not too inconspicuously to her with his head._

_Becca nodded, "Maggie. I'd like to introduce you to my know it all idiot older brother, James Barnes."_

_"_ _Call me Bucky."_

_Maggie looked up into the face of James "Bucky" Barnes. He was clean-shaven, hair slightly mussed from having hands repeatedly run through the chestnuts tresses. There was a sparkle in his eyes, playful and yet even then there was the smallest hint of uncertainty in his jaunty expression. His face was handsome and young. The cares of adult life were set on his face but had yet to harden. Maggie found that she wanted to make that face laugh, make that mouth turn up in a smile._

_"_ _A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Barnes," Maggie said dryly as the soda jerk set the frosty glass of root beer in front of her._

_"The pleasure's all mine, Miss..." Bucky continued._

_"Ms. Ramirez." She supplied firmly. _

_"A pleasure to meet you, Ms. Ramirez." He pushed an errant lock of hair out of his face as casually as he could manage in the given circumstances. "So, how do you know my little sis?" _

_"_ _Steven introduced us!" Becca supplied helpfully._

_"Oh. Did he?_ _" He said as he glanced between Steve and Becca, looking for further explanation._

_Steve shrugged as he mounted one of the bar stools, ordering a coke._

_"_ _Well, as you said, Mr. Barnes. You don't need your kid sister picking up girls for you."_

_"Bucky's just fine doll." _

_ "_ _Doll?" Maggie laughed, taking a sip of her root beer. "I'm not your doll, Barnes." _

_Bucky exchanged a private glance with Steve that she couldn't read before he turned back to her. "I'd like to buy you a drink. To apologize for my behavior earlier." _

_"_ _I'm sure you would." _

_"_ _Another root beer, perhaps?" He suggested, moving onto the stool beside her._

_Maggie looked back up at that face and into those eyes and that mouth. "A scoop of ice cream for this one...perhaps." She said, taking another sip through the straw._

_"_ _Done." He said, corner of his mouth quirking up in a playful smile. She watched as he pulled his wallet from his trousers, noting his arms, which were muscular and well-toned under the sleeves of his button-down collared shirt, the sleeves rolled and cuffed just above the elbow, the was his forearms narrowed to his wrists which looked somehow delicate._

_Steve cleared his throat and Maggie could feel herself hide the hint of a blush as she looked for somewhere else to focus her attention. The scoop of ice cream arrived, and Barnes motioned for her glass, which she pushed toward him, wordlessly watching as he delicately added the ice cream to her glass of root beer. _

_"I'm sorry about earlier." He commented as he carefully spooned the ice cream into her glass. "My sister can be a bit..."_

_"Enthusiastic?" She offered. _

_"Yeah." He nodded, looking up at her as he slid her glass back to her._

_"So I couldn't help but notice." She took the spoon from his outstretched hand and maneuvered it into the frosted glass. _

_"How do you know Steve?" He continued after a moment._

_"We work together." _

_"Ah. That makes sense. Funny, he hasn't mentioned you is all."_

_"Well, I'm fairly new, and you can't honestly expect Steve to tell you about all the dames and dolls he works with, can you?" She teased with a soft chuckle._

_"Perhaps then just the ones as beautiful as you are, Ms. Ramirez." _

_Maggie could feel herself blush, and she took a sip of the root beer float to buy herself time to simmer down. "So what about you? You work at the shipyard, don't you?" She asked. It was banal but would divert attention away from herself._

_"_ _When I can. Pays not half so bad when you can get steady work, but I take work where I can." He shrugged._

_"_ _Anything in particular?" Maggie asked._

_ "_ _Oh, the odd job here and there. I've done carpentry, plumbing, electrical, a little bit of masonry." A wicked smile spread over his face. "You could say I'm pretty good with my hands." _

_"_ _I'm sure you are Mr. Barnes." She said as sweetly as she could manage."I am sorry for the intrusion. I'm sure you were looking forward to having a drink with your sister and friend."_

_"_ _Well. We're friends, aren't we?" He asked._

_ "_ _Are we Mr. Barnes?"_

_"_ _I think that depends on you, Ms. Ramirez?" _

_Maggie found herself lost in those eyes, watching her intently, his brows furrowed thoughtfully. Everything about him was so earnest and sincere, and she just wanted to cup his face in her hands. Bucky put his hand on top of hers. It was warm and completely enveloped hers, and she could see a look of tremendous satisfaction cross his expression_

_"Your hands are cold, doll." He chuckled, his voice a low rumble in his chest._

_"_ _I think it's the ice cream, Mr. Barnes." She stammered, pulling her hand away._

_His smile faded, and he looked at her with a grave expression. "You need to wake up, doll. They're looking for you." His voice seemed to echo. "Wake up."_

Maggie woke with a start, her heart pounding as her phone buzzed by her head. The motion-activated lights had turned off, and the only light in the room was from her monitor, which had sprung to life when she had. It was 5:00 am.

It had been all hands on deck, they'd had an honest to god Winter Soldier sighting, in the aftermath of some kind of an altercation with Hydra goons. There had been at least sixteen people killed, with lord knows how many who'd been able to crawl away before Sam, Steve, and Romanoff arrived.

She checked her phone. 'Finally made it back in. Have some stuff for you from Romanoff. Be by as soon as I've had a chance to shower and grab a quick nap.'

Maggie sighed, setting the phone back down. They hadn't found him, at least not yet. Sam had flown back, while Steve and Romanoff had continued to follow the trail. They were only a few hours behind him. Though as she hadn't heard anything, Maggie had a sinking suspicion that Barnes was in the wind yet again. They would have to wait for another chance encounter before he'd appear on their radar again.

She wanted to be hopeful, wanted to believe that this might be it. That they might have finally caught the break they'd been waiting for since May, that in a matter of hours they might have their guy and that she might be one step closer to going home.

It was a vain, shallow hope that she could still go home. They hadn't even found the guy yet. Even then, what would they do once they found him? What was the chance that he would come quietly? He was obviously in no rush to reunite with Steve and was doing his damndest to stay off Hydra's radar. Their radar too.

Becca's question persisted. How much of the James Barnes that Steve and Becca knew was left to bring home? Did he remember Steve? Did he remember anything before the fall in 1945? It was a valid question. The man had spent nearly seventy years in Hydra's clutches. That tended to change people.

_Yeah, it made him dangerous. _

Romanoff's warning had stayed with Maggie, and with it a growing anxiety, a growing need to shove it all away and ignore the reality of her situation. The deeper she got into this, the more of a target became, and being in the crosshairs of someone like either the Winter Soldier or those who wanted to acquire him for their own wasn't something she wanted any part of.

The spy had helped teach her coding and encryption, and from there, Maggie had started playing with ciphers, and other methods of data protection. She'd gotten comfortable enough that she'd been able to create her own ciphers and had entirely rewritten her journal to more sufficiently safeguards what she knew. Romanoff wasn't wrong, and she didn't want just anyone to know what she'd found out about Barnes. He was dangerous too, and Hydra was far too eager to get him back in their clutches for her to take any more chances or stupid risks.

So she had Becca's question and Natasha's warning along with all of the information and data, and stories, and photographs she could ever wish for and never wanted battling for dominance in her brain. How exactly she was supposed to navigate that whole minefield, Maggie wasn't sure. Her subconscious had, thus far, taken the most creative route with how to output the information she was processing.

The dream.

Maggie was almost entirely sure that was due to her time with Becca. Becca had filled their hours together with stories of her older brother, her sisters, and of course, Steve Rogers. She'd shown Maggie all of the old family albums and talked about her husbands, Gabriel Martinez and Robert Proctor, and of course, her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, by both blood and by association. It was a welcome break from the monotonous daily life in the tower.

This inundation of information had led to dreams, dreams about Barnes in increasingly cutesy 1930s or 40s settings. He was a charmer, or at least that's what she'd gathered from Becca. James Barnes was funny and handsome, and always popular with women, and men from the sounds of everything. And with all of that, he was appearing in her dreams and trying to sweep her off her feet.

_Yeah, he also just killed sixteen people, and we're calling that a mild day._

_Well, not exactly people? _It should've surprised her how easily she'd made that leap. But it didn't. After all, they were Hydra Agents, the same Nazi organization that had knocked down her door, tortured her, and set her house ablaze. Of course, this was the same very same organization that had imprisoned and tortured and made Barnes their operative for seventy years. She should've felt pity, felt sorry for those lives that had been taken. But she didn't.

She sighed, turning her thoughts back to the apparition of 1940s James Barnes that had started gracing what little sleep she'd been getting. The dreams had been happening more frequently since July 4th and showed no sign of stopping. While a little off-putting, the 1940s James Barnes dreams were a nice break from her reoccurring falling nightmare. The one that had plagued her since Riley's passing and had only increased in frequency since the ranch had burned down because of Hydra. So far as weird and obsessive things currently plaguing her, dreaming about meeting the guy at a soda fountain ranked pretty far down on worrying obsessive behavior.

She'd been "dead" now almost six months.

She didn't like to think of that. Didn't want to think of how long she'd been away from her clients, her house, her friends, her _life. __That she'd been __gone_ for that long. She didn't like to imagine what it had done to the community, to the people of last chance. She tried not to think about the fact that she'd put all of her client's names on a google alert to get push notifications if their names appeared in the local newspapers or TV. And there was only one reason why they'd show up. Maggie tried to ignore the sheer dread and terror that she felt every time any alert appeared on her phone. Thankfully, she'd never gotten any of _those_ notifications, not yet.

Maggie rose to her feet and brushed haphazardly at the Dorito dust and crumbs clinging to her leggings and baggy t-shirt. Leaning over, she ran her fingers through her greasy hair, winding the mass into a bun, securing the ends with Bobby pins, too exhausted to fiddle one-handed with a hairband or a scrunchy.

_You'll be getting your cast off soon, that'll be good!_ She tried to be positive, but it was difficult when she knew that there would be PT after that, and only _then_ would they know the extent of the damage that Hydra had done with Great Aunt Millie's marble rolling pin.

Pausing, she looked up at the large map, spread across the wall, and riddled with pins, a majority of them black-headed—dead ends.

_If I was running from Hydra and my best friend, and I was trying to stay off the grid, where would I go? _She couldn't help but wonder as her eyes scanned all the places they'd looked, all of the leads they'd followed without avail.

_No. _She'd been thinking about this all wrong. It wasn't where. It was why. Why would these locations be of interest? What was he looking for? Why was he risking moving at all if he could just dig in somewhere and avoid detection?

Maggie turned to her desk, yanking open the drawers she grabbed out a ball of red yarn, pins, and several files. Dragging over a chair to the map, she wrapped the loose end of the yarn around the pin that marked Last Chance Ranch and started to work. Her head pounded, and heart raced as she focused on what she was doing, wrapping the yarn around strategic pins, adding documents and photographs, and linking them here and there. Something was starting to come into focus, something just out of her reach, just beyond the point of enunciation.

"Mags. Mags you okay?"

"Huh?" She turned with a start to the doorway of the office where Sam was standing, watching her uncertainly. "Oh. Hey. I didn't hear you come in." She stammered, glancing back at the map and documents all connected with a messy, knotted mass of red yarn. The moment of inspiration passed, and reality crashed in around her. _Damn. _And she'd actually thought she'd had something.

"You okay?" Sam asked. "It looks like a serial killer's lair in here."

Maggie turned fully to Sam and nodded, "Yeah, I had a thought... it...it's a work in progress. You up for some coffee, or have you had a nap already?" She didn't know how long she'd been working on the serial killer flow chart, or how long it had been since Sam had texted her. Still, she could feel the sleepless days that had proceeded weighing down on her, and that even if he didn't want a cup of coffee, she'd need at least two to three pots to herself remain functional for the next six to twelve hours.

"Nap wasn't happening, figured you'd be up, and we could go get breakfast."

"Appreciate it, Sammie, but I don't think I'm in any condition to leave the apartment at the moment. Not without some serious assistance first," She said.

"I can make breakfast here, or we can order in." Sam countered quickly.

"All right. Breakfast here sounds good. You have something for me from Romanoff?"

"Yeah." Sam nodded, producing a large Manila envelope, with a note rubber banned to it. The note had her name on it, very clearly in the agent's handwriting.

"Set it on my desk. I'll get to it later." Maggie said her gaze not breaking from the bulky envelope in Sam's hand, aware that a tight knot had started forming in her chest, making her voice warble uncertainly. She'd received any number of files from Romanoff. This one, however, had particular menace.

"You okay?" Sam asked for the third time in the last five minutes. She broke her stare on the envelope and met his curious expression, his brow furrowed as he surveyed her.

"Yeah. Fine. Haven't been sleeping well." She mumbled, rubbing her eyes as if way of an explanation.

"Well, go get the coffee going, I'll be in right behind you," Sam said.

Maggie nodded, padding from the office in socked feet, she started about the mindless task of making coffee.

_Is Sam concerned?_ The thought crossed her mind unbidden, and it took her a moment to both to absorb and wrap her brain around the idea. It was strange to think he was concerned for her. What was there to be concerned about when it came to her? She wasn't the two tour combat veteran who was currently paling around with Captain America trying to track down a guy who just plowed down sixteen people and had still managed to disappear without a trace. Sure, Maggie knew Sam cared about her, and what happened to her, but concern just didn't seem-didn't seem like something that he should expend on her.

"So, what are we feeling? Bacon and eggs? French toast? Waffles? Pancakes? Or do we want something fancier?" Sam's voice broke through the thick fog of thoughts that had been swirling around her as he entered the kitchen and grabbed the apron hanging from the hook that she still hadn't used since she'd moved in.

"Oh. Umm." She stammered, her brain trying and failing to focus on the task at hand. "Yeah, whatever you want."

Sam stopped, turning squarely to face her. "What's going on, Mags?"

"I'm fine, Sam, just got a little lost in my head there a moment." She focused back down on the stovetop percolator that was just beginning to bubble.

"You wanna talk about it?" He asked slowly.

What was there to talk about? There was nothing he could say that she was really interested in hearing, and there was nothing she could say that would convince him that she was a whole and functional human being at present. "When's Steve supposed to be back?"

"It'll be in the next 36 to 48 hours depending. Nat said she'd go on without him as for as long as 72 hours, but they weren't very optimistic about uncovering anything that would lead them to Barnes."

"I'm sure you and Steve be glad to be back in the same time zone together for the first time in a while." She said as casually as she could manage.

"Yeah," Sam hesitated. "Mags, about that. Steve-Steve and I."

"You don't have to divulge your private life to me, Sam." She cut him off as she reached up into the cabinet for two coffee mugs.

"Steve and I are dating. I thought you should know." Sam said, powering through, his voice even and slow. "I didn't want to make it awkward around the office."

"I appreciate the heads up, but I sorta worked it out myself," Maggie replied, setting both mugs down, she met Sam's expectant gaze.

Sam was waiting, waiting for her comment, her scorn, her anger. Something. Anything. What did he want her to say? What was there to say? What could she say? They weren't partners. They'd never dated. They'd be two parts of one man's life. Now that man was gone, and they were left to pick up the pieces.

"I'm happy for you, Sam." Maggie smiled, turning to the coffee mugs and the now bubbling percolator.

"Are you?"

His question hung in the air. She was, on a basic fundamental level, happy for Sam. Riley had loved Sam, and in her own way, Maggie had loved Sam too. Riley would want Sam to be happy, wouldn't want him to feel guilty, or spend the rest of his life miserable, and Maggie didn't want that for him either. Yet, Maggie knew she would be lying to herself if she didn't at least recognize there was a part of her that was jealous, and angry, and upset. Not so much at anyone in particular, but just at the situation itself. Sam was moving on, and she just _couldn't._

"Of course, I am. Steve's a great guy, and you seem happy. I'm happy that you're happy." She meant every word, and she felt them in her heart and soul. But the words sounded brittle, almost tinny in her ears, and probably sounded disingenuous, at best, to Sam. "Seriously. I don't begrudge you dating again. Even when Riley was around, we weren't in a closed relationship. He'd be happy for you, and I am too."

Sam nodded, "He'd want you to be happy too, Mags."

"I know Sammie. I just don't think that's in the cards for me right now. Not until we find Barnes and I can get back to the ranch."

Sam winced, but said nothing, turning to the fridge.

"What, Sam?" She sighed, looking up at the ceiling.

"It's nothing you want to hear, Mags." He shook his head.

"Just say it."

"It's gone, Mags. The house, the ranch, the people that made it your home is gone. _He's_ gone, and there's nothing any of us can do to change that."

_And who's fault is that? _She wanted to scream. _You were the one who re-upped with him. You were the one who was with him when he died. You were the one who never came back to the ranch back to our home to make it work after he died. You were the one who painted a target on my back by teaming up with Captain America. You're the reason I'm here, and you're the reason why there's no home to go back to._

Maggie couldn't say it. She wouldn't say it. She wanted to, but what would be the point? It wasn't true, and it was unfair to Sam and to everything he'd done to help his healing process after everything that had happened. It wasn't his fault she was trapped here. It wasn't his fault she'd volunteered to help rather than take the witness protection offer. He was one of her only friends, never mind the only person from her old life who knew she was alive. She really didn't have many options here.

Maggie shook her head and cleared her throat. "So, did we decide on what we were eating?"

"You're really going to shut me out like that, huh?"

She couldn't meet his gaze. "I don't know what you want me to say, Sam." She said wearily, picking up the coffee percolator and filling the two mugs.

"You don't have to do this, Mags."

Maggie looked back up at the ceiling, blinking as she realized tears were starting to form in her eyes. She squeezed both eyes shut, and took several long breaths before opening them again. "I'm tired, Sammie." She answered after a moment, the slightest warble in her voice. "But if I stop now, I don't think I'll have the strength to get back up and keep going. So I'm going to do my bit and help you and Steve and Romanoff bring Barnes in. Then I'll get to go back to my house, and my horses, and my life, and then maybe, after all of that, I'll be able to catch a break. I'll be able to rest and recover and heal from all the shit that's happened to me. But right now. I just need to focus on getting through this, and if that means being a little delusional and thinking that maybe there will be something left going back to when this is all over, then that's what I'm going to do."

"You're not alone. You know that, right?" Sam said slowly.

Maggie tried to laugh, but it came out as a harsh choked sound, watery from the tears that were silently slipping down her cheeks. "I dunno, I feel pretty damn alone." She shook her head, wiping her face with her sleeve. "But I guess that can't be helped at the moment. All things considered."

Sam nodded. Wordlessly turning back to the fridge, he began rummaging around in the shelves. He grit his jaw as he worked, and Maggie knew he was trying to come up with something to say. That was the problem, though, wasn't it? What could he possibly say that wouldn't sound like the same hollow empty platitudes she'd received immediately after Riley had died, or when her grandfather, or mother, or brother had passed away? 'We're here for you if you need anything.' It was an empty, meaningless statement. Well-intentioned, but it required no work, no effort, nothing on the part of the person saying it, and they could pat themselves on the back with a job well done. They had, after all, offered their assistance. It would be on the recipient to take them up on their open offer of _anything._ Whatever the hell that meant.

"It's enough that you're here with me right now." She managed, dumping several spoons of sugar and a splash of milk into her coffee before taking a long, scalding draw from the mug.

"Is it? Enough?" Sam asked without glancing up at her.

"I think it has to be, Sammie." Maggie cleared her throat. "So, what are you making us today?" She smiled, though it felt grim and forced.

"Just figured bacon and eggs and toast. If you'd like, I can make some freshly squeezed orange juice too."

"That sounds wonderful. Mind if I put on some music?"

"Not at all."

Maggie turned on some Earth Wind and Fire, and they fell into a rhythm, not talking except to ask one another for kitchen implements or to sing along with the music. Soon enough they were sitting around the kitchen island eating contentedly in relative silence.

"So any plans for today? You going to see Becca Proctor?" Sam asked, clearing away the dishes.

"No. She had to cancel our lunch date. Doctor's appointment and her son James is in town. I think I convinced Becca to go through some of the family albums with him." She replied. "They're also getting ready for Rosh Hashanah, I think. So I won't see much of the Proctors until October."

"So, what are you going to do?"

"Probably go through the files you gave me from Romanoff, shower, wash my hair. That sort of thing," She shrugged.

"We could go grab dinner if you'd like. It's been a while since we've had a chance to go out together." Sam suggested.

"I'd like-"

Maggie was cut off by the sound of Sam's phone buzzing. Turning off the sink's faucet, Sam grabbed his phone and swore under his breath. "Sorry, Mags. I gotta take this." He said quickly, walking into the other room.

She tried her very best not to sigh and roll her eyes. They'd been so close to having a moment, and then duty called. It always called. But that was the life, wasn't it? It was something she'd learned as a military wife and partner, and she had been constantly reminded of that since she'd come to Avengers Tower. There was part of her that understood. There was another part of her, the angry, bitter, jealous part of her that hated it and hated everything to do with the concept of duty, honor, and sacrifice. Those things never brought peace, they brought pain, and she knew plenty about that.

Sam walked back into the kitchen a few moments later, a hesitant expression on his face. "Steve and Nat have some things they need me to check out. I have to go," Sam said. "We'll have to do a rain check on dinner."

_Naturally. _She thought sourly.

Maggie nodded. "Totally understand. Gotta do what you gotta do." She said as pleasantly as she could manage as she rounded the kitchen island to stand squarely in front of him. "Be safe. I'll cash that rain check when you get back." Maggie went up on tiptoes and kissed his cheek.

Sam put his hand on the back of her head and kissed her forehead before they parted. "Be good. I'll see you soon."

"Don't do anything stupid, Samuel Wilson." She smiled as they walked to the front door.

"I'll do my best. No promises, though." He chuckled.

They hugged, and then he left without another word.

Maggie sighed as Earth Wind and Fire belted out the lyrics to 'September.' She wasn't quite feeling that level of energy at the moment.

"Music off!" Maggie called, and the apartment went quiet.

And here she was, alone again. Maggie glanced into the office at the desk where the files sat from Romanoff.

_Well, not quite alone._

She walked over to the desk, folding herself into the chair, and pulled the note rubber-banded Manila envelope. It was addressed to her, encoded, and in Romanoff's handwriting.

Once Maggie managed to decipher the note, it read: 'This is the point we talked about. Proceed with caution. If you chose to proceed, I hope you find the answers you're looking for.'

Maggie exhaled, her gaze turning to the large envelope in front of her. _There could be anything in there._ She could feel her stomach twist at the thought, her anxiety skyrocketing, her hands shaking. And then a single thought pierced through the din.

_I can have the truth, or I can go home. There is no in-between. _

She leaned back in the office chair, rubbing her hand over her face.

The more she knew, the more of a target she would become. Was she prepared for that, Emotionally? Physically? Was she ready to deal with the consequences of everything that meant? _If I don't look through those files, I might miss something that could help lead us to Barnes._

Maggie shook her head. No. That wasn't quite right. Romanoff had looked through those files. Romanoff knew what was in them. If there were something in them that warranted immediate attention, she would've shown Sam or Steve. No. This was about their conversation, about Barnes being dangerous, about Steve not telling her and Becca the whole truth. This wasn't just helping someone find their best friend. This was about who that best friend had become.

Maggie thought about the dream. Her in pin curls and Barnes in suspenders drinking a root beer float at a soda counter. Would it be so bad to continue to live in her ignorance? To think of this person in a way contrary to reality? In the way his little sister had seen him some seventy years before? Maggie had seen who he'd become, the end result of seventy years of captivity and torture and coercion. It had cost her her life and livelihood. Did she really need to know how he had gotten to that point?

If she looked at these files, if she continued, there would be consequences. She would never be able to go home. That's what Romanoff had said. She couldn't stop, she couldn't walk away, so she would just keep plodding along as she had been for almost six months. Just keep trucking along, helping Sam and Steve as she had been for the past six months. She'd help them bring in Barnes, and be able to catch her break. She didn't need to know the truth. It was probably better, she knew, if she didn't. She could keep thinking of Barnes as an abstraction as a distant memory as a sweet 1940s flavored dream if that meant at the end of all of this, she got to go back to her life.

Maggie rose to her feet, opening the bottom drawer of her desk, and slid the large parcel into the drawer before shutting and locking it. She wouldn't pass the point of no return, not now, perhaps not ever. For the moment, for now, all that mattered was survival, namely her own. That was the only thing that could matter.

* * *

What did we think? I hope you all enjoyed! We got a little bit of Winter Soldier! Bucky, a little bit of VintageDream!Bucky this chapter. I'd love to know what you all think! We also got to see a bit more of the Mags/Sam interactions. Which of course I love.


	18. Day of the Dead

Author's Note: Marvel owns what it owns, and I own what I own, let's keep it that way shall we? Don't Sue me!

Recommended Listening: Volver, Volver by Vicente Fernandez, Vamonos by Ana Gabriel, La Llorona by Angela Aguilar, All my Ex Live in Texas by George Strait, Mad World Gary Jules

For this chapter there are mentions of death, depression, assassination, and intrusive thoughts.

* * *

Chapter 18: Day of the Dead

Steve didn't know what he was getting himself into.

"A 'Day of the Dead" celebration," was all he had been told, and neither Sam nor Ramirez has been particularly forthcoming with details.

'It's a celebration of those you've lost, and commemorating their memory.' Ramirez had supplied.

'Dude, Mags makes the best tamales and Mexican sweet bread.' Sam had urged.

Only now Sam was out of town, and so he was going it alone. He didn't mind it, exactly. He'd asked her multiple times what he could bring, to which she'd waved him off. So he'd turned to the Wikipedia article on 'Dia de Muertos.' It had been instructive on what the holiday was but hadn't given much in the way of what one should bring to such an occasion. Eventually, he'd selected some wine that he hoped would pair nicely with whatever she was serving.

Tamales are what the Wikipedia article had said were traditionally served, along with different types of sweet bread and beverages. It had also said that offerings were left out for the deceased; generally, their favorite food and drinks to entice them to come for a visit. It wasn't a wholly foreign concept. He was just unsure of how he fit in, and why Ramirez was so insistent that he come and celebrate with her.

That was another thing. When she'd first invited him over for A Day of the Dead celebration, it had been him and Sam. Only now Sam was out of town, and so he was going alone. He didn't mind it, exactly. It was she knew he and Sam were dating. She'd taken it fine, according to Sam, but this would be the first time they'd be one on one since she'd found out. Steve knew Ramirez would be perfectly civil. He just didn't know what to expect from her in this particular situation.

He paused outside the apartment door, hand raised, poised to knock, his brain arguing that it wasn't too late, that he could still make a run for it, and she would never know. Then he heard it, ballad-like music in Spanish seeping into the hallway from the apartment, her voice singing along. It struck Steve as he listened a moment how sad and mournful the song sounded, even though he couldn't understand all of the words, and how rich, and strong, and sure her voice was as she sang along.

_I can't leave her to celebrate alone. _

Steve knocked and listened as the singing and music stopped on the other side of the door. The door swung open, and he was greeted by Ramirez, who stood in the doorway, smiling broadly, "Steve!" Ramirez went up on tiptoes to hug him.

Steve stooped to return her embrace. "Hi." He managed.

"I'm so glad you could make it! Ramirez stepped back, breaking the embrace, "I wasn't sure you'd come!"

There was the slight twinge of guilt that twisted momentarily in his stomach. "I was told you're an excellent cook. I wouldn't miss out on an opportunity to see what Sam is talking about."

"Oh, Sam." Ramirez laughed, rolling her eyes with a wry smile. "Good to know he has his priorities straight. Come in, come in." She ushered Steve inside the apartment, moving them effortlessly from the entryway into the interior of the open concept kitchen. He stopped as he was hit with the rich scent of hundred of flowers mixed with the smell of sugar and warm bread, which also mingled with the steaming tamales, beans, and rice.

Not much had changed since she'd first moved in back in May. He'd been in her apartment with relative frequency. They held weekly briefings and even more frequent mini-meetings, and in that entire time, she'd never personalized any of the furnishings or decorations of the sterile, minimalist apartment, outside of the craigslist couch in the office.

Now, for the first time, the apartment seemed to resemble something close to what Steve could describe as Ramirez's home, something indicative of who she was as a person.

Massive bouquets of marigolds and roses filled vases that covered almost every flat surface in the apartment. She'd set up a table with photographs in frames displayed in tiers. Plates and glasses filled with food and drink were positioned carefully before each of the photographs. There were also Pan de Muerto and Calaveras set out around the makeshift altar. Each Calavera was about the size of his fist and heavily decorated with a name painted or piped onto the forehead of the skull. There was a multitude of fake candles placed around the altar, that flickered and cast a warm glow around the whole thing.

Steve glanced over at Ramirez, who stood beside him, watching quietly as he took in the whole scene, and was struck by how her appearance had also altered dramatically. She was wearing an apron tied around her waist, but under rather than her usual leggings and baggy t-shirt she wore a gauzy black dress with floral embroidery on the yoke. Her hair was in a low bun, and there was a marigold and a rose stuck into the base, near the nape of her neck. Her feet were bare, but she'd painted her toes a rose red. She looked more at ease, more relaxed, more quintessentially Magdalene Ramirez than she had the entire time he'd known her.

"You look a little lost Steve, do you want an explanation?" Ramirez's voice broke the silence.

"No. No." He shook his head, his gaze returning to the array of portraits on the altar. These weren't the same photographs Sam had gone into the house for. Steve could still hear Ramirez screaming, begging Sam to save her Ofrenda. She'd been delirious, as she'd clung to consciousness, but had been adamant about saving them. Sam had only been able to retrieve a few of the things from the burning house. "How many did Sam save?" He asked softly without looking over at her.

"In the end, he was only able to save my grandmother's Our Lady of Guadalupe Statue, my grandfather's rosary, and Riley's dog tag. Everything else was too burnt to salvage. Fortunately, everything I had on the altar at home was digitized and stored safely in the firebox that Sam was able to get since he's the executor of my estate." She answered slowly, her words tinged with an audible pain. She stared at the Ofrenda a moment, before shaking her head and clearing her throat. She looked up at him with a small thin smile. "Would you like me to introduce you?"

"Yes. Please." He nodded.

"Let me take the wine, and we can let it breathe a moment, while I introduce you to the clan, then we can eat." She said, taking the bottle from his unresisting hand.

Steve followed her to the kitchen, watching as she rounded the island and removed a corkscrew from the drawer. Her left hand grasped the neck of the bottle. She'd had her cast removed almost three weeks prior, and the white surgical scars on her left hand and wrist were garish in the kitchen light.

He took a step forward and opened his mouth. "Let me have my dignity on this, Steve. If I want help, I'll ask." Ramirez said shortly before he could say anything.

"Okay." He put his hands up and stepped away.

"Thank you, Steven," Her eyes were focused down on the bottle, and after a moment she removed the cork.

"I hope it goes with Tamales," Steve said uncertainly as she sniffed the cork.

"A bottle of wine shared with friends pairs perfectly with any dish." She smiled up at him. "Now. We'll let the wine breathe, and I can introduce you to everyone." Ramirez took his hand and led him over to the altar. "All right." She said slowly, her eyes first scanning him before she turned her attention to the photos.

First, there was Riley, a formal photo in his military dress uniform, and his parents, Francine and Edward Underdhal, in a candid photo. Then there were her maternal grandparents, Tomas and Ignacia Valdez in an old black and white wedding photograph. There was also her mother and brother, Maria and Antonio Ramirez, represented by a candid of her mother, and her brother's graduation photo. There were also several other photos, former clients and friends. She explained quickly who everyone was, and each of their corresponding food and drink.

In Steve's view, it verged on being downright morbid. Yet watching Ramirez's expression and tone, there wasn't anything particularly pained. If anything, there was a depthless tenderness to her features as she spoke.

It was...well endearing felt condescending for the situation but comforting to see that she trusted him enough to invite him over and share this tradition with him.

_If not with me, then who?_

She didn't have anyone else. He noted that. Grandparents, mother, brother, husband, husband's parents, friends, all of them dead and gone. He'd noticed that her father wasn't on the Ofrenda, but he wasn't going to venture to ask. Of course, there was also the complication of her being "dead." Would she still have celebrated if both he and Sam had been out of town? Would she have carried on without anyone here but her? He didn't know for sure, but he had a hunch.

"Well. Enough with my dead relatives and friends. I think the wine has breathed long enough, and the rice and beans and mole for the tamales should be ready!" Ramirez announced as she concluded the Ofrenda introduction and started back to the kitchen.

Steve turned to follow but paused, glancing back at the altar, and at the faces that looked back at him. Some smiling, some serious, some candid, some staged. Each of them was a person she'd loved and lost. He could only imagine the size of the altar he would need to display photos of all those he'd lost, and all those he would likely lose sooner than later. How could she do it? Carry on after all that loss? He glanced up at the photograph of Riley, meeting the man's distant gaze. _I'm sorry. _He wanted to say. Sorry that he was here and that Riley was gone. Sorry that Ramirez and Sam were here without him when everything he'd heard about their relationship had sounded idyllic. _Can I ever live up to that? Can I ever fill shoes as large as those you left? _He couldn't help but wonder.

"You coming, Steve?" Ramirez called from the kitchen. "I need to know how much you're going to want!"

"Yeah. Sorry." He answered, shaking his head as if trying to shake himself awake, he followed her into the kitchen.

She served dinner, he poured the wine, and they sat down and ate at the kitchen bar in silence, The formal dining room table was currently occupied by the Ofrenda.

She had turned the music back on, but it wasn't the same thing she'd been listening to, and singing along with before. It was a softer piano edging on smooth jazz. Was she worried about what he would think? Embarrassed? Concerned he wouldn't or didn't like it?

"What were we listening to before?" He asked as innocently as he could manage.

"Oh." She replied shortly. "That was Mariachi music. I can turn it back on. It can just be a little hard to talk over."

"You were singing."

Ramirez blushed, "You heard that?"

"It was very good." He rushed.

"Thanks. I hope I wasn't too loud. Wouldn't want to disturb the neighbors."

"What were you singing?"

"Vamanos."

"Let's go?"

"Yeah. That's right. A love song. Most of them are." She nodded, taking a sip of her wine. "I used to know a lot of them by heart. Although I was too young at the time to really know or understand what they were about." She paused, surveying his expression. "They're love ballads of the less happy variety. Not quite break up songs, but not exactly the most optimistic or happy of songs either."

"Why'd you know them?"

"Little known fact, but I was in a mariachi group from the time I could hold a guitar until..." She glanced over at the Ofrenda. "Up until the time my brother died."

"You play guitar?"

"Uhh. Yeah. Used to." She glanced down to her left hand.

"Oh."

"My brother, Antonio, was an amazing guitarist. He had a real knack for it. He was the reason I got involved in the first place. He wanted to play in a mariachi group, and I was signed up along with him so my parents only had to drive us one place."

Antonio, her brother, the boy no more than seventeen on the Ofrenda. Steve wondered what had happened, how the young man had died, but he didn't have the heart to ask. He cleared his throat, "You have a lovely singing voice."

She laughed. "You haven't heard me sing anything other than through the door."

"Will you?"

"Sing? Perhaps."

"Come on. I know Bec's been showing you all of my old drawings."

"Not as many as you think. You are more than welcome to scour the internet for home videos of me as a young mariachi singer. I know they're out there. I think my last chance Ranch volunteers posted some of them on the website for part of my funeral services."

"Oh." He didn't know what else to say.

"Do you listen to much in the way of Mariachi music?" Ramirez asked.

"No." Steve shook his head, taking a sip of the wine.

"Know much about Mexican folklore?" She continued.

"Sorry, no."

Ramirez nodded, taking a bite of a tamale. Her expression was thoughtful as she chewed and then swallowed. "I'm going to go on a tangent here, but I promise it does relate back. First, I'd like to say that my family wasn't very superstitious, but I was told my fair share of ghost stories as a child, namely the story of La Llorona. The story goes that a woman's husband abandons her and their two sons. In a fit of anger and grief, she drowns her sons and then kills herself. When she arrived at the gates of heaven, she was denied entry unless she can find the bodies of her sons. Unable to do so she wanders the earth for all eternity, looking for her children, kidnapping children she mistakes as her own and drowning them." She paused, looking up at him. "Grim. I know. It was something told to little children to keep them from staying out after dark, namely away from water at night. It fascinated me as a kid."

"Murder-suicide?"

"Ghost Stories. Folk-Lore. Something Riley and I shared, but that Sam absolutely couldn't stand." She explained, shaking her head with a chuckle. "It inspired me to learn the song about La Llorona. It's one of the few that I know by heart still." Ramirez chewed on her lip before meeting his gaze. "If you want to hear me sing something that eight-year-old Maggie wouldn't have dreamed of, that would be the one."

"I'd be honored."

Ramirez nodded, setting down the glass of wine and pushed back from the bar. She paused the music playing overhead and cleared her throat. Then, she began to sing.

Goosebumps covered his arms and ran up his spine as her voice spun a haunting melody that echoed around the apartment. Her eyes were closed, and every bit of her seemed to be focused and concentrated on what she was doing. He could see her hands moving as she sang as if she was playing an invisible guitar.

_Used to._ She'd said. Steve could imagine that working the frets of the guitar, the pressure and dexterity needed would be difficult for her to manage with her left hand in the condition it was in presently.

The song ended, and she opened her eyes as the last note finally faded away. "And now you need to show me your sketches." She grinned, before taking another bite of the lonely tamale left on her plate.

"That...That was beautiful." He managed after a moment.

"Thanks. I'm out of practice, but it's good to know I've still got it."

"You know you can turn back on what you were listening to before I showed up." Steve continued. "Since that is how we got off on this tangent."

"It is, isn't it. All right, but let me know if and when you want me to change it." She resumed the music, but at a low level.

"Did you always celebrate Day of the Dead?" Steve asked after a moment.

"It was something my family did growing up, but something that I didn't really pick up until after my grandfather died, and then it really kicked into gear after Riley was killed." She explained.

"It's a beautiful tradition," Steve said his gaze focusing back on the Ofrenda and the splendid array of marigolds and roses, the sweets, and the offerings all lined up in front of row upon row of photographs.

"You really think so?" She looked genuinely surprised and pleased.

Her enthusiasm and excitement took him aback. "Of course." He nodded.

"I think Sam finds it a bit macabre, but I've never had the heart to ask," Ramirez explained quickly.

"What did Riley think?"

"Oh. He was supportive in his quiet way. I know he enjoyed the food aspect of it to be sure. He understood it was important to me, but I don't think he understood why. Of course, the significance only multiplied tenfold after he died." She took a sip of her wine, and looked contemplatively down at her plate, humming along with the song that was playing.

"Sam doesn't talk about him," Steve said after a moment.

"Well, I may be wrong, but talking about your ex-boyfriends doesn't exactly make the best pillow talk." She said.

"True." Steve nodded. "Do you guys still talk about him much?"

"No. Not really." Ramirez shook her head.

"Oh. I'm sorry. I just...I thought." He stammered into silence.

"Sam and I don't talk about much anymore, not since Riley passed." She smiled, but it was sad, mournful almost. "It's a strange feeling, yanno? Someone so central and important in your life being relegated to the past tense. It's almost like he died, while not _actually_ dying. We used to be close. We had plans together."

Steve didn't say anything. They were entering dangerous territory. He was dating Sam, but Ramirez was his friend or a friend of sorts. Even beyond the bounds of the mission to find Bucky, they would be interacting regularly. If he didn't proceed with caution and care, things could end badly and would create more complications in an already complicated situation.

"I know you have a question, Steve," Her voice bridged the silence between them, and he looked up into her earnest expression.

"Huh? No. I don't. Just thinking."

"You're a terrible liar." She chuckled, taking the bottle of wine and pouring herself a generous glass. "Seriously. Steve. Whatever you want to know. I'm an open book. I think it's important to have open communication. Particularly in a situation like this where we're all working and living in close proximity. Sam and I had a wonderful relationship with a man we loved very much. Now that person is gone. That shouldn't make you uneasy or wary about having a relationship with Sam. He's a wonderful human being, and you're lucky to have him. Seriously. Anything you wanna know. I'm happy to put your mind at ease."

He hesitated. He wanted to know about Riley, but that was unfair to Sam. If Sam wanted to share what Riley had been like, that was up to him, and he shouldn't ask Ramirez. More pressing was the mystery of what had ruined the friendship between her and Sam. He'd seen the way they interacted. It wasn't exactly tense, but there was tension between them, and he needed to know why, so he could help defuse it or avoid exacerbating it further. "What happened?" Steve began slowly. "Between the two of you? That caused you two to fall out."

"Oh," Ramirez said slowly, raising the wine glass to her lips took a thoughtful drink before she set the glass back down and continued. "It wasn't so much a falling out as parting of ways. He finished with his tour and then had something things to look after with his mom and sisters in D.C. 'Should just be a few weeks Mags,' he said. Then he found the temp gig down at the VA. 'It'll just be a few months, just to get my feet under me Mags,' He'd said. Then he bought a house. And what had been a few weeks became months, which turned into years. I guess it came down to he couldn't bear the thought of coming back to the ranch, and I couldn't bear the thought of leaving for the same reason." She shook her head, sniffling. "It hurt. It really hurt. Feeling abandoned by Sam after Riley died. We'd planned a life together, and then it all just went up in smoke."

"You ever tell him that?"

"No. No. he felt guilty about what had happened. I wasn't about to add to that. I was the painful reminder of what he'd lost, of what we'd lost. I wasn't going to force him to sacrifice his well being for me." She said.

"What about you?"

She frowned thinking a moment. "I dunno. I had the ranch. I had people, depending on me. If Sam needed space, then I was going to help give him that. I'm a big girl, I could bear it on my own. At any rate, it wasn't the first time and I doubt it'll be the last."

"Last to be what?"

"Oh. Left alone." She paused. "I'm glad you two found one another." She smiled. "It's good to see him moving on, and I know that Riley would be glad to see Sam happy again, too."

Steve would've asked, _What about you?_ But he knew the answer. She would smile and say something about being married to her work, or just focusing on her health. Something, anything really to deflect. He knew because he understood. Sam was a good change of pace. A reminder to slow down. A reminder to stop and look around. Sam grounded him, gave him purpose, a sense of direction. For Maggie, losing Riley and then by extension Sam, it must've felt like she was lost out in the vast ocean, alone.

They sat in silence a moment, listening to the music as it played over the apartment's speakers. "If you don't mind, I may change the music while I clear up dishes." She announced after a moment.

"I don't mind, but I'm doing the dishes," Steve said, rising he collected the dinner dishes before she could open her mouth to protest.

"Steven Grant Rogers. I didn't invite you over so you could do the dishes for me." She sputtered as she started to rise.

"No. But I was raised to help my host clean up after they provide a meal for me." He answered as he started rinsing off the dishes and putting them in the dishwasher. He couldn't help but revel in the look of indignation spread across her usually even features.

"Fine." She rolled her eyes and crossed her arms, but much to Steve's satisfaction, she sat back down in her seat. "But I don't have to like it."

"No one said you had to." He chuckled. "Besides, from what I read tamales are incredibly time-intensive, as are the Calaveras and the Pan de Muerto."

Her face lit up with a broad grin. "You've been doing your homework."

"I wanted to know what I was getting myself into."

Ramirez chuckled. "I didn't realize you were 'getting' into anything."

"It seemed important to you, and I didn't want to come in blind." He reasoned.

"All right. Fair." She said, taking a sip of wine.

"And you were going to change the music."

"Right." She said, returning to her phone, "You don't mind a little country and western do you?"

"I have absolutely no preference."

"I guess having a seventy-year gap in your pop culture knowledge would do that to you." She commented as she scrolled through her music selection.

Steve stopped what he was doing and looked over at her. There was no pity in her voice, which was what he usually got from people when they started talking about anything before 2012. There also wasn't any attempt to educate, which he also appreciated. While he'd received some excellent recommendations from people about what he should check out next, it got a little condescending at times. It had been a simple comment, a statement of fact. He could feel a tension slip from his shoulders, a tension that he hadn't realized was there, and he returned to rinsing off the dishes.

He was pulled back into the kitchen by Ramirez chuckling to herself.

"What?"

"Oh. It's been a while since I've listened to George Strait. He was one of my mother's favorites. She used his music to teach my brother and me how to dance." She explained as the music started in the background.

Steve paused, listening to the sound of guitar and fiddle play. "Huh."

"What?"

"I think I've heard this one before." He admitted.

"All my Ex's live in Texas is a classic." She smiled. "What honky-tonk bars is Sam taking you to?" Her smile broadened and was accompanied by a giggle.

"Natasha, actually."

"What?!" Her face lit up with both amusement and disbelief.

"Yeah. Undercover mission."

"Oh, Jeeze. That sounds simultaneously amazing and terrible. Did she teach you to two-step?"

"A bit," Steve admitted. He could feel the tips of his ears starting to burn.

"You can't be any worse than Sam. I swear that man has two left feet." Ramirez slid from the barstool and rounded the island to square with him. "Humor me, Steve?"

"Huh?" He switched off the water and turned to her.

"Come on, Steve, let's go for a spin! Show me your moves, It's been forever since I've danced!" She laughed, extending her hand to him.

"Oh. No. No. I don't think that's a good idea." He stammered, taking a step back and wiping his wet hands on his shirt front.

Her smile disappeared, and she nodded, scanning him. "I understand."

Steve opened and closed his mouth. He hadn't said anything, but his expression must've spoken volumes. "It's not you. I-I I made a promise." Steve managed.

Ramirez put up both hands, "You don't have to explain anything to me."

"I'm sorry, I just can't."

She nodded thoughtfully, returning to the bar, she slid up onto the chair and took a drink of her wine. "Sometimes, the most difficult thing is remembering."

"What?" He looked over at her. She was looking at the Ofrenda, the warm golden colors of the flowers, and the lights she'd placed around the altar reflected and flickered in the dark, glassy depths of her eyes.

Ramirez chuckled to herself, taking another drink. "I don't do this because it's fun. There is an element of joy and celebration to this holiday, but I think after every one that I've lost, it's become something else." She turned and met his gaze. "My grandfather was diagnosed with Alzheimer's when I was in high school and passed away when I was finishing up my master's degree. Watching him and what the disease did to him made me realize that forgetting is easy. Anyone can forget. You can forget things you desperately want to hold onto. You can forget parts of yourself and lose yourself in the act of forgetting. Remembering, then, is the bravest thing any of us can do. Part of that is doing this. Not just remembering those I've lost, but reminding myself of what they left behind, the good, the bad, and everything in between." She smiled sadly. "How you remember and how you commemorate what you've lost is important, but it's also tremendously personal. So when I say you don't have to explain anything to me, I mean it, because I do understand."

Steve didn't know how to respond. She wasn't wrong, but there was still no way that she could understand, not entirely. How could she know what it was like to lose absolutely everything you ever knew, and then have two of the most important people in your life not remember you? Did she know about Peggy, or was it only coincidence that she'd brought up her grandfather having Alzheimer's? It really didn't matter, because she wasn't exactly wrong. Remembering was an act of bravery, but what about survival? Surely she knew about that too.

Ramirez was watching him, waiting for a response, but there wasn't anything malicious in her expression. "Thank you, Ramirez." He said simply.

"Any time, Steve." She replied with a small, demure smile. "You know, you can call me Maggie if you want." She commented after a pause. "I feel like we've crossed that threshold."

"That's fair." He chuckled nodding.

"Now. Dishes are done. We've nearly polished off this bottle of wine. Would you like to watch 'The Book of Life?' I was able to snag a copy for Stark's screening room. Just came out, I haven't seen it yet."

Steve was about to answer when his phone buzzed. Pulling the phone from his pocket, he strangled a sigh before looking up to meet Ramirez's inquisitive gaze. "I gotta go. Avengers stuff."

"Hydra?"

"Yeah."

"Any sign of Barnes?"

"Don't think so. Just Hydra."

Ramirez nodded. "It was a pleasure to have you over for dinner, thank you for coming."

Steve hesitated, looking her over. While still hallowed in the dim apartment light, the vibrant warmth in her features had seeped away, her shoulders looked tense and hunched, the flowers in her hair wilted. "Thank you again, Maggie. For everything. Dinner was wonderful, we'll have to watch the movie when I get back."

"Sounds like a plan."

Steve nodded. He wished there was something he could do to ease the sadness in her features. He opened his mouth to say something, but his phone buzzed again.

"Be safe, Steve." She said, rising up on her tiptoes to hug him

"Have a good evening, Maggie." He replied as they pulled apart.

"I'll walk you to the door." She said.

He followed her to the door, and they exchanged goodbyes to a chorus of buzzing and ringing from his phone before he finally left. As he walked away, he could hear Maggie turn on music. This time, as she started to sing along it sounded sad, mournful, as he caught only one word, 'Volver,' or 'return' in Spanish.

* * *

His whole body throbbed like a gigantic bruise, and he blinked as the ceiling started coming into view. He stifled a moan and squeezed his eyes shut rolling onto his side, his head pounding. He should check the time, it was important to know how long he'd been out. Know how long he'd been vulnerable to Hydra, and the world in general.

The first time it had happened, he'd been afraid. It had happened in a back alley, and he'd awoken a few minutes later surrounded by a circle of well-meaning homeless people. They'd been kind enough, but the whole experience had been frightening enough that he'd taken to listening and waiting for the signs of an oncoming seizure so that he could plan accordingly. Now he was just angry. Angry at his body for betraying him. Angry at Hydra. Angry at the world for the larger truth that the seizures revealed. His body and his mind were still not his own. Not just with the prosthesis Hydra had inset into his chest cavity or the programming they'd shoved into his brain, but now with all of the nasty side effects. The seizures being only one of them. _Your mind and your body are not your own._

He shivered.

Reaching out with the prosthesis, he groped blindly until the hand came into contact with the fleece blanket laying a few feet away on the floor. The fabric caught and snagged on plates and joints, sending a buzzing sensation up into the base of his neck, but he'd rather that comparatively minor discomfort to being cold. He hated being cold almost as much as he hated how disoriented he felt coming out of a seizure. The combination of the two was nearly unbearable. It was too close and familiar for comfort.

Clutching the blanket to him, he took stock. His head was pounding, and his body ached, but that was normal. There were no broken bones, no cracked ribs or teeth. He hadn't bit his tongue or the inside of his mouth. Mostly he was just exhausted, but he was no stranger to that either. He hadn't slept solidly since Kiev. That had been too close. He'd had to fight his way out of there, and had killed probably half a dozen Hydra agents. _If they'd leave me alone, they wouldn't have to worry about me snapping their necks. _He couldn't help but think bitterly.

That wasn't entirely true. He'd still be trying to track down those Hydra agents involved in the Winter Soldier and the Red Room Programs, for answers, if nothing else.

He was exhausted, everything hurt, but he didn't have time to sleep, didn't have time to let his aching muscle rest. He had to keep moving. He couldn't let this little set back make him vulnerable to whatever was going to happen next. He opened his eyes and pushed himself into an upright position. His right hand brushed the journal that had slipped from his bag as he'd started losing consciousness.

Pulling it onto his lap, he flipped absently through the pages, as the events of the afternoon started slowly returning to him. He'd been making lunch. Then something had triggered a memory. A relatively pleasant memory, something that the woman had made him, the smell had come back to him. He'd done his best to ignore those memories. He'd avoided doing research on her. It was still so new, so fresh. But the memory of the green chili stew had been too strong. He'd stopped everything he'd been doing, and immediately gone to the library to do as much research as he could stomach.

The Last Chance Ranch website had been useful. As he'd reasoned, the volunteers, or those who remained, had been doing the upkeep on the website since Ramirez's death. While crude, the website had been updated for Dia De Muertos with a 'virtual Ofrenda.' It had the photos and information of all of the clients and volunteers who had died, including Tim and Alice, but that paled in comparison to the pages that had been constructed for Riley Underdhal and Magdalene Ramirez. The page for Ramirez had featured over a hundred photos, from childhood all the way to the last cookout she'd hosted. There had been home videos, again ranging from childhood when she'd apparently been in a Mariachi group, through adulthood. It had a detailed biography and did it's best to flesh out the person Ramirez had been, but it didn't answer his most pressing question. What sort of person would protect him, even after she found who he was? Sure, it was apparent she'd been a caring and generous soul, with a soft spot for broken things, but that didn't answer how that pertained to him, and why she'd been willing to sacrifice it all for someone as wholly unworthy as himself.

He'd continued searching, looking into all the open records he could access. Until he'd come across a photo. A family photo. Ramirez's family, brother, mother, father, and her as a small toddler. They'd all been smiling demurely, except the toddler, who looked like she was giggling. It looked like a happy, almost perfect family. Then, like someone had flipped a switch, he was back, not on Last Chance, but back inside the head of the Winter Soldier. Watching like a third party spectator, a pain groaning at his temples, auras dancing in-front of his eyes.

Somehow he'd made it home, he couldn't quite recall how. But he could see them. How could he have forgotten? It was recent in comparison to the other things he'd done. He'd been in Mexico, aiding the cartels. Assassinating politicians who were a threat to Hydra's operations near the border. Fuentes had been one of them.

He could hear them screaming. Fuentes had been shot in the neck, giving the mans' wife and two sons a chance to scream for help. The target had been Fuentes, Fuentes only. The wife and children weren't supposed to be there. He'd been told his target would be alone. Everything had gone according to plan, but then he'd seen her, trying to get her sons to safety.

_No witnesses. _

That's what he'd been told. It was imperative to the success of the mission objective that there were no witnesses. It was supposed to look like a cartel hit. So he'd killed them. His handlers had praised him. He'd remained silent. He'd done his job. They were collateral damage, in the wrong place at the wrong time, it had been the only way to achieve his mission objective, and it was better to obey than to question. Better to obey than defy.

What exactly had triggered this latest seizure, he couldn't be sure. All he knew was that he could hear them. All of them. They were sharper now than they had been in the past months, more defined. He could pick out atrocity from atrocity, assassination from assassination, mission from mission rather than seeing them as a collective mass of memory. He could see the faces of those he'd killed. Their expressions moments before he pulled the trigger, see them frozen in the seconds before he ended their lives.

He closed his eyes, exhaling a shaking breath, tears streaking his face and dripping from his chin. He ran his fingers over the filled pages of his journal, a testament to everything he'd remembered, everything he'd learned about who and what he was, and of what he had been. It was of little comfort, but it was still a comfort of sorts. The knowing. Knowing and remembering would enable him to survive. Plus, having all that he knew, all that he remembered, on paper meant that if he forgot, the information wouldn't be lost forever.

He didn't want to remember. At first, when he'd first gone on the run, he'd wanted to remember everything, down to the last detail. He'd reasoned it was the only way he could escape Hydra permanently, but now, over six months on, he wasn't so sure anymore. It wasn't like he had a choice, the memories came unbidden, and without warning, much like the seizures. Perhaps someday the memories wouldn't come back quite as frequently, or as violently as they did. Eventually, he might not have seizures anymore. He didn't know, but in the meantime, he'd have to figure out how best to mitigate the worst of it, and prepare for the unknown.

After a moment, he wiped his face with his hand and looked down at the journal. Picking up the pen from the floor, he continued writing. He would move in the morning. For now, he would write everything he could remember. This was too important to forget.

* * *

I hope you all enjoyed! Once again, thank you for your patience between chapters and I hope that the wait was worth it! I wasn't sure with everything going on that you'd appreciate this chapter (just because of the darker themes), still, I hope it was a break from the craziness. I'd love to hear what you thought.

Please do note, I do hear and consider your comments when creating content. Thank you to all who have commented!


	19. A Non-Birthday Birthday Celebration

Author's Note: Marvel owns what it owns, and I own what I own, let's keep it that way shall we? Don't Sue me!

Recommended Listening: Princess Leia's Theme by John Williams, Vienna by Billy Joel, Walk on Life by Dire Straits, Happy Happy Birthday Baby by The Fleetwoods, I'm Always Chasing Rainbows by Judy Garland, and Shut up and Drive by Rihanna

* * *

Chapter 19: A Non-Birthday Birthday Celebration

It had been quiet since September. They hadn't heard anything out of Barnes since Kyiv, and Sam had been working solo. Meanwhile, Natasha and Steve and the rest of the Avengers took on Hydra, cell by cell, to try to weed out the terrorist organization and hopefully find new leads on Barnes.

For her part, Maggie had been working on her coding, encryption, and Russian. She'd also been working on her physical therapy. It was slow going and painful, though not nearly as much as the search for Barnes.

She still hadn't crossed the point of no return. The files had remained sealed and locked in her bottom drawer. She wanted to ask Becca what she would do, what Maggie should do, but she hadn't had the nerve nor the opportunity to ask. Becca would probably think she was a coward, and anyway, they hadn't seen much of one another. The onset of cold weather hadn't been kind to Becca, who'd been dealing with colds and other respiratory problems. But as a side effect, Becca had been spending more time with her children and grandchildren, so Maggie couldn't entirely begrudge her time with her family.

Maggie glowered as she paced the length of the apartment, the floor to ceiling windows, giving her a spectacular view of uptown. She squeezed the Captain America stress dummy Sam had gifted her as hard as she could with her left hand in time with each step. It hurt, but the pain was cathartic, it meant the nerves were healing, but she was reasonably sure that the doctors didn't mean like this. She wasn't supposed to tire herself out, push herself too hard. Yet she worked the hand until she could feel the tension and pain stinging in her neck and jaw.

Wincing, she shook her head.

She should've gone with Steve and Sam to D.C. for Veteran's Day. Sam was going to lay a wreath, as he always did. He didn't lay one at memorial day. He just didn't have the heart. Maggie would argue because Riley was still with them, in their hearts and minds, but Sam would never admit that. So Sam was gone, spending time with Riley on Veteran's day, leaving her alone on her birthday. One of the many reasons she didn't like and didn't want to celebrate her birthday.

Maggie paused, glancing out the window to the city below. It was cloudy outside, but it wasn't snowing, sleeting, or even rainy. It wasn't the proper weather for the season or her mood.

_We'd be having campfires regularly._

Maggie sighed, feeling more upset and angry at herself for allowing the thought even to pass her mind. She'd deleted the weather and news alerts for the Last Chance Ranch area and volunteers, mostly because Sam had seen it on her computer, and she hadn't wanted to explain. Unfortunately, he was right, it wasn't healthy or productive, and she needed to ween herself off checking on what was going on in her old life.

Maggie dropped the stress doll, swearing and muttering under her breath. Flexing her left hand, she stooped down to collect the little plastic Captain America and stopped at the sound of someone knocking politely at the door.

"Come in. It's unlocked." She called, standing upright.

There was a hesitant pause before the door opened, and Natasha Romanoff entered. "You really shouldn't do that."

"Come to lecture me, Agent Romanoff?" Maggie smiled, turning to face the approaching woman.

"Would you listen if I did?" Romanoff asked, arching a playful eyebrow.

"I am an excellent student." She shot back in mock hurt.

"Which is why you're still leaving your front door unlocked."

"True, true. But would you, Hydra, or anyone else I know with lethal capacity be deterred by a locked door?" Maggie asked with an exaggerated drawl.

Romanoff rolled her eyes, but the faintest hint of a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "You make a compelling point."

"But I take it that's not why you're here."

"I brought you some intel and a gift."

"Gift?" Maggie narrowed her gaze, her expression hardening in a grimace.

"You've burned through the other coding books I gave you. So I found some in Russian for you to work on your reading." Romanoff removed both the file and the thick volume and extended it to her.

"Thanks. "Maggie said, stuffing the Cap' stress doll into the pocket of her cardigan and taking the file and book from her. "I'm just going to put them in the office if you wanna follow me over."

"Lead the way." Romanoff nodded, following behind as Maggie made her way to the office. "So you have anything planned for the day?" She asked cryptically.

"Who told you?" Maggie groaned, placing her newest acquisitions on top of the mounting stack of paperwork and books piling up on her desk. "And don't lie to me." She added, turning back to face Romanoff, who was standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame.

"Death certificates are open record."

Maggie rolled her eyes, "You can just say Sam and drop all the vague spy international mystery woman nonsense."

"He didn't say anything specific, just asked me to check on you today."

"I'm sure." She replied dryly.

"So, do you have any plans for today?"

"I'm having dinner with Becca this evening. I haven't seen her in almost a month. Otherwise, I was just going to hang around here for the rest of the day."

"So you'll have time to go to the gun range and the driving course," Romanoff said a matter of factly. "Go get dressed. I'll meet you in the shooting gallery in twenty minutes."

Maggie opened her mouth to protest, but Romanoff interjected before she could get anything out. "If you're going to hang around superheroes, assassins, and spies, you need to know how to shoot and drive."

"At the same time?

"Possibly, but not today."

Maggie sighed. "All right. Fine. You make a compelling argument, but this is strictly training, and I need to get back in time to shower and change."

"Of course." Romanoff nodded. "Shooting gallery, twenty minutes just ask Jarvis for my floor. Wear comfortable shoes."

Romanoff left before Maggie could come up with a reasonable excuse for why this was a bad idea. As the door shut and locked behind Romanoff, Maggie exhaled a long, strangled sigh. "Fine. Fine. Fine!" She muttered as she put away the new intel and secured the more sensitive information lying around before walking back to her bedroom to change.

"Stupid Sam, I hate my birthday, why did he have to say anything?" She grumbled as she pulled clothes from the dresser and closet.

Yet despite herself, Maggie found that she was both excited and nervous for the day ahead of her. She and Romanoff had been working together since she'd very nearly been intercepted by Hydra back in August, but they hadn't 'hung out' professionally or even socially. They had a strictly 'off the book' professional relationship. She hadn't told Sam or Steve what exactly she and Romanoff were up to, and she had the suspicion that Romanoff wasn't the most forthcoming either. Romanoff came and went with little to no warning and was gone just as quickly. Maggie didn't mind, much of her life since last chance had been devoid of structure and consistency, and Sam and Steve frequently dropped in without much warning and often had to leave mid-way through whatever they were doing. Yet, with Romanoff, it was different. Steve, for his part, was an open book, his emotions, and thoughts on his face even if he didn't verbally say anything. By comparison, Romanoff was like a book encased in three feet of concrete, locked in a safe that had been dropped into the Marianas trench or launched into space. It made it difficult to get a read on the exact nature of their relationship professional or otherwise. Now Romanoff was spending her free time with her, taking her out to a driving course, on her birthday none the less.

"Fuck!" Maggie swore as the closure on her skinny jeans slipped again. She flexed her left hand before attempting again. She _really _hadn't done herself any favors.

Finally getting the jeans buttoned, she slipped on flats and pulled an already buttoned plaid flannel button-down over her head, thankful that neither required fiddling with closures, and that the sleeves of the flannel had already been cuffed and didn't need further adjustment. She pulled her hair back into a bun using the one-handed technique she'd learned while her hand was in a cast, and surveyed herself in the mirror.

"You look like shit." Maggie grimaced. "Well onward and upward." She added, bleakly before she headed up to the shooting gallery.

When she arrived, Romanoff was waiting for her, an array of guns from a small handgun to large semiautomatic and automatic weapons laid out and ready to go. "No moss grows on that rolling stone, huh?" Maggie commented, dropping her bag on the bench against the back wall of the gallery, before approaching Romanoff and the arsenal.

"Have you handled guns before?"

Maggie raised an eyebrow, "I grew up in Texas. I've handled and am comfortable with a fair number of firearms."

"Have you ever shot anyone?"

There was a beat of silence as her question filled the room. "What?" Maggie blinked, unsure if she'd heard her correctly.

"Have you ever shot someone?"

"No. I have fantasized about it a fair bit." Maggie tried to laugh, but it was all bravado.

She'd been around guns all her life. She was from Texas after all and had worked on a ranch for most of her life as well. Firearms were a tool and a fact of life in the same way that a nail, hammer, and file were. What Romanoff was asking was had she used the gun as a weapon, which no, she hadn't, and the thought made her stomach twist. It was strange really, she'd been around military personnel all her life and had been inundated with that culture yet had never thought of herself within the context of being the one who wielded the gun to kill people. She was the one who talked people back from those experiences

"I hope that you never find yourself in that situation, but if you do, you need to know how to use your weapon and be prepared to kill, because whoever it is trying to kill you will likely have more training and won't hesitate," Romanoff said gravely.

She wasn't trying to scare her, Maggie knew better than. Romanoff was being honest, which was perhaps even worse.

"So." Romanoff continued, "Wherever you'd like to start, let's get you comfortable."

"Start small and work out way up."

Natasha nodded wordlessly, and they began. Proceeding through each gun, Natasha explaining the pros and cons of all the weapons, working up from a Glock 26 to the M60. 'We have bigger guns if you'd like. But you shouldn't need to be comfortable with those' Romanoff had commented when Maggie had gotten all giggly with the larger weapons.

There was an undeniable adrenaline rush that came from firing guns that Maggie tried to quash, particularly with Romanoff standing behind her. This was serious and could potentially save her life one day. Yet still, she giggled and reveled in the rush that came with the whole experience.

"Not a bad cluster," Romanoff commented as Maggie brought the paper target back to where they were standing.

Maggie had moved away from the rifles and higher caliber weapons and was now getting familiar with a SIG-Sauer P226 and a Glock 19.

"You'll need to keep practicing to tighten it up, but not a bad start." She said, surveying the target. "You're welcome to come down while Clint and I are practicing. We do that every morning around five before the morning brief."

"I-I-" Maggie faltered before clearing her throat. "I'd like that, thank you."

"It's approaching noon, time for lunch before we head over to the driving course," Romanoff commented, as she started collecting up the mini arsenal.

"But. I. I mean." Maggie stammered.

"You'll want to eat before we go driving. Driving on a full stomach is important for focus," She said.

They returned the guns to the locker, although Maggie protested that she should clean them first, and they headed down to the garage.

Walking past the flashy hotrods, Romanoff stopped at the little black Honda Civic. Maggie frowned. "Yes. Really." Romanoff commented, answering Maggie's unasked question. "Get in. Traffic is going to be terrible."

Maggie felt like a fish out of water, opening and closing her mouth as she climbed into the passenger's seat, feeling off-balance, uncertain of what was going to happen next. "So, where are we going?" She asked as they pulled from the garage.

"Have you ever had Ethiopian food?"

"No."

"There's a place in Hell's Kitchen I've been meaning to try."

"I'm up for an adventure." Maggie shrugged.

"Glad to hear it."

They arrived at the restaurant and were immediately seated and served by the owners who chatted excitedly with Natasha in Arabic. Maggie felt slightly lightheaded.

"Do you know them?" She asked as they started eating.

"Yeah, I helped them out a while ago." Romanoff supplied obliquely.

_Helped them out? _Maggie had questions, lots of questions but knew that she was unlikely to receive anything more substantial than that. She was still perplexed and confused and uncertain when it came to Romanoff, namely, why? Why was she doing this? Any of it. Helping her, but also helping in the search for Barnes. There were too many things that didn't add up. However, this was neither the time nor the place to think about that. Romanoff, in her way, Maggie supposed, was trying to be friends. While Maggie had more than her fair share of misgiving about the situation knew better than to look a gift horse in the mouth, even if it did mean she was sort of kinda celebrating her birthday.

"So why an equine therapy ranch?"

"Pardon?" Maggie blinked, looking up to meet Romanoff's gaze.

"Just wondering why equine therapy."

"Oh." The question surprised her. "Well." Maggie began slowly. "A bit of personal experience combined with intersecting professional interests."

Romanoff nodded.

"Have you spent any time around horses, Romanoff?"

"Can't say that I have."

"Well, when this all blows over, and I get to have a life again, I'll have to show you the ropes."

Maggie said, wincing as she did, waiting for Romanoff to chastise her for still thinking she could go back to the ranch.

"I look forward to the opportunity." She paused as a thoughtful expression passed over her features, but before she could say anything, the server came over to check on them.

They passed lunch in the polite conversation akin to workaholics on a first date, and when they finished, Romanoff left a roll of twenties tucked discretely under one of the plates. "Won't take it, otherwise." She said, spying Maggie's inquisitive look. "Come on. We need to get to the driving course."

"Don't worry about it."

"Romanoff, please."

"My treat."

Maggie sighed, rolling her eyes. "I'll have to get you back, you know."

"Doubt it."

Maggie opened and closed her mouth, trying to come up with a comeback, but in the end, just sunk back into the seat, arms crossed. "You know that's not fair. Right, Romanoff?"

"I never said I'd play fair, and you can call me Natasha. We've crossed that threshold, I think."

"Fine. Natasha. I'm going to get you back. And there's no way you can stop me."

"Good Luck with that."

There was no possible come back Maggie could come up with that would be sufficient, and so they rode the rest of the way to the driving course in silence. When they arrived, Natasha drove the course a couple of times, explaining the different maneuvers without pause before making Maggie get into the driver's seat to traverse the course herself.

Maggie surprised herself by how quickly she was able to pick the different driving maneuvers. Then, once Maggie had mastered a less challenging course in reverse, Natasha brought out a Ferrari, and they spent the last hour and a half of their track time doing laps, drifts, and doughnuts.

"You okay?" Natasha asked, glancing over from the driver's seat at Maggie, who was laughing breathlessly, clutching her side.

"I'm-fine-why-would-you-ask?" She managed between gasps for air.

"No reason." Natasha shook her head with a small chuckle. "Come on. We have to get you to Brooklyn, wouldn't want to keep Mrs. Proctor waiting."

"Shit," Maggie swore, glancing at the clock on the dashboard. "Shit. Shit. Shit." She scrabbled from the Ferrari and started back toward the little black Honda.

"Relax. I prepared for this eventuality." Natasha commented. "I'll drop you off and make sure your security people know where you're at."

Maggie leveled her gaze on the other woman. "You're acting really nice. Why?"

"Aren't I allowed? To be nice?" She asked, raising an eyebrow. "Now come on, or else we're going to be late."

"I mean, you don't have to be nice to me. Just because I'm Sam's friend, and I'm helping Steve." Maggie continued as they returned to the road and toward Brooklyn.

"Is it so impossible to think that perhaps people enjoy your company?"

"Do you?"

"It's not outside the realm of possibility."

Maggie snorted. "Well, whatever the case, thank you for taking me out today. Both lunch and the tactical practice shooting and driving. It's been a while since I've shot firearms of any kind, and I've never driven a course like that, so thank you for being gentle with me." Maggie replied.

"Of course." Natasha nodded. "Any time you want to brush up on driving or shooting, just let me know, and if I'm not available, I know some people who'd be more than willing to assist."

They drifted off into silence and arrived promptly at 6:00 pm to Becca's front door. Natasha got out and retrieved a duffle from her trunk, before escorting Maggie to the front door.

Becca greeted them at the door. "Hello, Ms. Romanoff, lovely to see you again."

"Hello, Mrs. Proctor, good to see you as well." Natasha nodded.

"Will you be joining us for dinner?"

"Afraid I can't stay, just here to drop off Ms. Ramirez," Natasha said before switching into Yiddish.

Becca replied likewise in a rapid burst of Yiddish. Maggie glanced between them, feeling, once again, slightly lightheaded at what was occurring. The duo chatted back and forth a moment before Natasha cleared her throat. "I'll leave you two to it, have a good evening," Natasha said, extending a duffle bag to her. "In case you wanted to change for your evening in. Call if you need anything."

"Thank you, Natasha." Maggie stammered as she took the duffle. "For everything."

"Any time." Natasha nodded with a small smile.

Becca and Maggie watched as Natasha returned to the car before Becca spoke. "Did you two have fun today, dear?" She asked, escorting her into the apartment.

"Yeah, of a sort," Maggie replied, shutting and locking the front door behind her. She paused. "How do you and Natasha know each other?"

"Oh. She's a lovely girl. She came by shortly after D.C. back in April. Wanted to know if I'd seen James and to make sure I was safe. As far as I'm aware, she's personally overseeing my security detail. Doesn't talk much, but she has a good heart." Becca paused, turning to her. "Now. Why don't you go shower and change while I order us some food."

"Sounds like a plan." Maggie agreed, veering off to the small guest bathroom.

Stripping down and jumping in the shower, Maggie let the hot water stream over her face, through her hair and down her back, providing a brief respite to contemplate everything that had happened. First and foremost being that Natasha and Becca knew one another apparently. Why hadn't Natasha told her? Why hadn't Steve said anything? Why hadn't Becca brought it up before? The wheels in her head continued to turn as she tried to work through the questions that continued to haunt her. Why was Natasha doing any of this? What was the motivation? Now, Natasha's brief interaction with Becca had only complicated everything that Maggie thought she knew. The answer felt so simple, yet was just out of her reach.

Maggie sighed, letting the warm water soak into her aching muscles. This certainly wasn't how she'd expected she'd be spending her birthday, but it had been a pleasant one thus far, and she hoped that it would continue through the evening. When inevitably the water ran cold, she climbed out and dried off.

Wrapped in a towel, Maggie opened the duffle and started removing the items that Natasha had included inside. Basic toiletries, toothbrush, comb, toothpaste, lotion, tiny shampoo, and body soap. Then Maggie removed a pair of leggings, a knit shirt, a chunky cable knit cardigan, and an equally chunky pair of socks. Tucked further inside the duffle was a sensible pair of skinny jeans, ankle boots, shirt, and scarf. At the very bottom of the duffle was a note. 'Always smart to have a go-bag packed and ready. Let me know if something doesn't fit. -Nat.'

Maggie put the note down and exhaled slowly, a wave of emotions overcame her, both overwhelmed by Natasha's kindness and angry that she was surprised and that it was affecting her this way. She didn't celebrate her birthday. She hadn't in a long time. It was too painful. It was also one of several reasons she'd started the monthly birthday cookouts. She'd wanted to focus on celebrating other birthdays, other people's ability to survive another revolution around the sun. It also alleviated the question of 'what are you doing for your birthday?' She hated spectacle and being the center of attention. She hated the expectation that she was supposed to be _happy_ when more often than not, she had more than her fair share of reason to be less than jovial.

So this…this was different. Maggie wiped at the tears that had started to stream down her face. She'd been grateful that Sam and Steve hadn't forced the issue of her going with them to D.C. Sam inevitably would've dragged her out for dinner, and it would've become a whole big ordeal, even if he hadn't intended it to be that, it would've become that. With Natasha today, well, it had been about as low key as one would imagine spending the day with a super-spy could be. Maggie would even venture to say it had been fun. Now, Natasha has given her a wonderful gift, the proper clothes for an evening in, without fanfare. It was a simple sort of kindness, and it was touching in a way that Maggie had not expected.

Maggie paused at the sound of knocking at the door, and the muffled exchange between Becca and the delivery man. Dressing in the leggings, knit-t and chunky sweater and socks, Maggie emerged out into the living room, hair wrapped in a towel. "So, what's the verdict?"

"Pizza," Becca answered. "And I took the liberty of pouring you some wine." She added, motioning to the coffee table, which had the pizza box and glass of wine sitting on it.

"Thank you," Maggie sighed, sinking onto the couch beside Becca, who was already nibbling on a slice of veggie delux pizza. "So, what's the plan? She continued as she grabbed a slice of pizza and picked up her glass of wine. "What are we going to talk about tonight?"

"Aren't you tired of listening to me talk yet?" Becca chuckled.

"Never." Maggie paused, surveying the other woman. Becca looked tired and frail, practically fragile. It was startling in comparison to Becca's ordinarily bright and vivacious attitude. "Is everything okay?"

"Oh. Yes. Just tired. Old." She smiled wearily. "I hope you haven't been too lonely without our little luncheons."

"Well, I have to say no one compares with your company." Maggie tried to smile, but again, something felt wrong. "If you're not up for company, I can call Natasha or Fabian to come to pick me up," Maggie said quickly.

"No, no. I've been looking forward to this. I have missed our little chats." Becca said. "Just a little surprised you wanted to have dinner with me on your birthday."

Maggie rolled her eyes. "Who told you it was my birthday?"

"Oh, don't roll your eyes at me. Steve did. And I was expressly told that no _ordeal_ was to be made of it."

"I see he is learning."

"Oh, we never made a big deal over birthdays back when we were growing up, so he can certainly respect and understand your desire to not celebrate."

"Oh." Maggie felt the tension slip from her shoulders.

"But I have been told that you're going to stay overnight and we'll have brunch in the morning."

Maggie moaned, falling back into the couch cushions. Her wine sloshing wildly in the glass.

"Don't be so dramatic, and don't you spill wine on my couch, Magdalene Ramirez." Becca scolded gently.

Maggie grumbled, taking a long draw of her wine.

"They do worry about you. We all do, you know." Becca said after a pause.

"I know." Maggie sighed, taking a large bite of pizza. "But seriously, I haven't celebrated my birthday in years, and I'm not about to start now."

"I understand," Becca said firmly. "But brunch tomorrow isn't for your birthday. It's just a group of friends breaking bread together."

"Fine." Maggie relented, as a sudden wave of exhaustion came over her. She shook her head, trying to shake herself out of the funk she'd suddenly found herself in.

"You all right?"

"Would you be?" Maggie replied.

"Point taken," Becca said, cracking a small smile. "Why don't we put on a movie. I don't think either of us is in a particularly chatty mood this evening."

"Sounds perfect."

They rose, adjusting the seating accordingly, and went through the laborious process of selecting a movie. Since they didn't really want to watch anything contemporary, they settled for the original Star Wars trilogy and ate in silence.

The evening passed in mutual silence, and as Maggie polished off the pizza and bottle of wine, sunk into the couch, before eventually putting her head in Becca's lap. "Is this okay?" She murmured weakly.

"Of course it is, dear," Becca said as she gently stroked her hair.

Maggie swallowed hard as sudden tears lingered near the surface. There was no need for that, yet they persisted, and she did everything she could to hold them out. She should be proud of herself. She'd made it through the day, made it through the day without sobbing, and without anyone wishing her happy birthday. If she was honest, growing up and through her twenties, she'd never thought she'd make it to thirty, and now over six months after she'd nearly died at the hands of Hydra Nazis, she felt just as lucky to have made it to thirty-one. Yet, despite all of that, could this really be considered living? Or was she the walking dead, laughing and smiling and doing her best to convince herself and the world that she was okay? Tears were warranted, but not necessarily appropriate in the given circumstances.

Wordlessly, Becca started running her fingers through Maggie's hair and over her scalp, and she could feel the tension slip from her body, and her defensive barriers come down. It was like Becca, without anything at all, was telling her that it was okay, that she wasn't alone. Maggie leaned into the other woman's gentle caress. When was the last time she'd been touched in such a gentle and intimate way by someone like this? She couldn't help but wonder. It had been a while. Long enough that she couldn't remember the last time. She exhaled a long breath, the movie played softly in the background, and Maggie drifted away on a soft white gossamer cloud of wine, pizza, and the gentle touch of someone who cared about her.

_Maggie found herself on a green, grassy lawn flat on her back, basking in the warm glow of the sun. She felt safe, warm, and content, without a care in the world._

_"You know, doll. You shouldn't fall asleep out here alone like this."_

_She opened her eyes to see James Barnes standing over her. The sun was at his back, and she couldn't see his expression, but she could tell there was a broad grin on his face._

_"_ _James Barnes. Do you have a habit of sneaking up on sleeping women? Or am I just particularly special?" She laughed, pushing herself into an upright position. "Besides, it's a beautiful day why shouldn't I lay out here in the park in the sun."_

_"There are all sorts of weirdos around." He said, extending a hand to her. "Come on. Let's go for a walk."_

_She accepted his hand. He helped her to her feet and took her by the arm as they started walking through the park. "Were you dreaming?" He asked gently, the cool breeze mussing his warm chestnut hair. _

_ "_ _What do you think I should dream about, Mr. Barnes?" She asked, glancing up at him._

_"_ _Mr. Barnes?" He shook his head, face scrunched with an expression of distaste. "That's my father."_

_"_ _All right. So what should I call you? Bucky? James? Jim? Jimmy?" She laughed, wrinkling her nose at the last suggestion. "And anyway, I can honestly say that I wasn't actually asleep. I was daydreaming. And anyway, Mr. Barnes, _ _how'd you know where I'd be?"_

_"Well, you know how Bec gets."_

_"She and Steve are the worst gossips." She rolled her eyes._

_"It's a compliment. _ _They like you, you know. They both do." _

_"_ _Then I've managed to trick them both, have I?" _

_"Now,_ _ I hardly think that's fair." He replied. "You're charming and beautiful and funny-."_

_"_ _And it appears that somehow I've managed to trick you too, James Barnes." She interrupted with a laugh._

_"_ _Well, I wouldn't say trick per-say." He chuckled, patting her arm with his hand. "So what sort of misadventures are we going to have today? Coney Island? The Movies? They're playin' Snow White. We could get an egg cream, go dancing, whatever you want. It is your birthday, after all."_

_"_ _And who on earth told you it was my birthday?"_

_"_ _I have my sources."_

_"Well,_ _ what if I were to tell you that I was happy laying in the grass on my back and sun myself before I was woken up by a strange man who wants to celebrate my birthday."_

_"_ _Then, I would say, let me buy you a snow cone, and then I'll return you to your preferred state." He said, planting a quick kiss on her forehead. "No birthday celebration. Promise." _

_Soon enough, they were sitting in the grass occupied with the sugary frozen treat. She'd gotten red, and he'd gotten blue, and they both munched contentedly in silence._

_"_ _Your snow cone matches your lipstick." He commented after a moment._

_"So it does. How convenient." _

_"How do I look?_

_"Very blue." Maggie laughed._

_"Perfect!" He paused a moment before he proceeded cautiously. "Tell me something doll. Why are you out here, alone, on your birthday?"_

_"Never been one for parties." She admitted before taking another bite of her snow cone._

_"Now, we both know that's not true. He turned to look at her, his expression earnest._

_Maggie rolled her eyes, "And you're just the expert, aren't you?"_

_"Com'on. You can be honest with me. I'm not a gossip like Steve and Bec."_

_"_ _Fine." She huffed in a feeble attempt to blow an errant strand of hair out of her face. "I don't like celebrating my birthday. I dunno, There's an expectation that you're supposed to be happy, and for a lot of my life...well, let's just say that I didn't expect to get this far. I don't like keeping score, and that's all birthdays are. I've just found it's easier to avoid dealing with other's expectations on how you're supposed to be feeling than confront them about it." She shook her head, "That's stupid, isn't it? I'm stupid."_

_"_ _I don't think so. That feeling of being crushed under the weight of everyone else's expectations of you while you just smile and pretend it's all fine." He replied a note of seriousness in his voice that hadn't been there before._

_"_ _You wanna talk about it?" Maggie asked uncertainly._

_"_ _Nothin' to talk about, just observations." He said, shaking his head, finished off his snow cone, and set the paper down in the grass._

_"You know they love and admire you, no matter what, right?" She commented haltingly as she tried to feel her way through what could potentially be a minefield._

_"_ _Yeah." He said, combing his hands through his hair. "What if I'm not the person he thinks I am? What if I can't be" He flopped back. "What if I'm a completely different person now?"_

_She didn't know how to answer and just took another bite of her snow cone. The syrup was too sweet and sticky, the ice had already started to melt, and the red syrup was running down her hand and dripping off her elbow onto her yellow dress. She felt slightly dizzy, something in her stomach telling her that this was all wrong. She set the snow cone aside. Her hands stained red from the syrup._

_"_ _You know you have to find me, doll." _

_Maggie glanced over at Bucky, his eyes closed. "What?" She stammered._

_"_ _Well, you don't want to disappoint Steve, do you?" He adjusted, reaching out blindly grabbed her arm and pulled her down into the grass._

_"Find you?" She asked as she lay beside him, "But you're right here." _

_"_ _No. I'm not. You have to find me." He said emphatically._

_"What if I can't? What if you don't let me?"_

_"You don't have a choice. Steve and Becca are counting on you."_

_"Then you have to let us find you."_

_"Wake up." _

_"What?"_

_"Wake up!" _

She jolted awake, sitting bolt upright, momentarily disoriented as she tried to figure out where she was. Focusing on her surroundings, she met the stern gazes of the Barnes family portrait from across the room. Winifred, George, James, Abigail, Rachel, and Rebecca Barnes all stared at her with their firm, unrelenting expressions.

_Right I stayed the night over._ She exhaled, dropping back into the couch. Maggie chuckled to herself, basking momentarily in the last of the lingering sensations of laying out, sunning in the warm grass. _With James Barnes._ She tried to ignore that bit.

Maggie paused at the sound of voices coming from the kitchen. It was Becca and Steve, talking in low, hushed, edging on urgent tones. Pulling the blanket back over her, she closed her eyes, focusing on the voices, but they were too hushed for her to be able to tell what they were actually saying.

Turning, she cracked one eye open to see that someone had left a glass of water out for her. Reaching out for the glass of water, Maggie misjudged and knocked it over.

"Shit." She snatched up the glass, its contents already spreading across the table.

The door opened, and Steve rushed out, followed by Becca, concerned etched in their features.

Turing on the living room light, their expressions softened when they saw what had happened. "Go grab a towel, Steven," Becca instructed firmly. "And the Brita."

Steve nodded obligingly and went to the kitchen. Becca walked out and sat down on the couch beside her, helping pick the miscellaneous papers, magazines, and knick-nacks on the coffee table out of the water. Then there was a knock on the door.

"That'll be Sam," Steve said, quickly darting to the door.

"What did you do now, Mags?" Sam laughed as he emerged into the living room behind Steve.

"Nothing," Maggie said flatly.

"You must be the Samuel Wilson I've heard so much about." Becca rose, extending her hand to Sam.

"It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance Mrs. Proctor. Mags and Steve say nothing but wonderful things." Sam said, taking Becca's hand. "Thank you for looking after her while we were away."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Sam. And of course, She's a pleasure to have around," Becca replied.

Maggie rolled her eyes, but a grin had already spread over her face. "You two can stop it now."

"Well, it's true." Steve cut in, pouring her another glass of water, which Maggie took from him and drank.

"Well take a seat, Steven and I were just discussing brunch." Becca said, before turning back to Steve, "Back into the kitchen with you!" She shooed.

Sam chuckled as he sat down beside her on the couch, watching as they disappeared back into the kitchen. "You have a good day yesterday?" Sam asked in a low voice.

"As good as could be expected," Maggie answered. "How was it?" She said after a brief pause.

"Crowded. It usually is, but he knows he's loved, knows that we haven't forgotten about him." Sam replied.

Maggie grabbed his hand, squeezing it tightly, three times, but said nothing.

"I'm glad you weren't alone on your birthday."

"You saw to that, didn't you." She scoffed under her breath.

"What Nat did? Nah. That was all her. And you were the one that planned dinner with Becca."

"And brunch?" She mumbled, leaning her head against his shoulder.

"That was Steve."

Maggie looked up at him, her expression skeptical.

"Hey," Sam said, putting his hands up defensively. "I know how you get about your birthday." He leaned over, kissing the top of her head. "One more year around the sun, huh?" He murmured.

"And not for lack of trying." She replied.

"Well, let's try to work on that over the next year."

"What avoid being nearly killed by Hydra Nazis? I'll see what I can do." Maggie chuckled humorlessly.

"Sounds good." Sam smiled.

They both turned at the sound of pots and pans crashing in the kitchen. "They're probably about to burn the place down, aren't they?"

"Yeah, probably. Come on. Let's go supervise. Otherwise, we might be making a run to get take out," Sam said, standing up.

"I think I'm gonna change first. I'll be right in." She smiled.

"Don't you even think about leaving me alone for too long with those two," Sam warned, leaning down kissed her on the forehead.

"I'll be right behind you." She assured him as he disappeared into the kitchen.

Maggie sighed, rubbing her face, she glanced back over at the Family portrait on the mantelpiece, her gaze focused on James Barnes, meeting his piercing gaze, unaltered by time, but without the fierce anger that she'd seen in those eyes back on Last Chance.

A sudden anxious feeling crept into the pit of her stomach. _You have to find me, doll. _That's what he'd said in the dream. But the way he had said it. It had been urgent like she was running out of time. But that couldn't be right, could it?

Maggie shook her head, rising off the couch, picked up the duffle and retreated into the bathroom to change and freshen up. James Barnes could wait another day. For today, she was going to eat brunch with her friends, have mimosas, and try to work on being thankful that she was still here, along for the ride, prepared to live and fight for another day.

* * *

Thanks for reading! I hope you all enjoyed! Look Forward to hearing what you all thought! A little slow on the Bucky content (I mean we are seeing a saucy 1940s Bucky which is kinda fun).

As always, Happy Reading!


	20. A Protector of (Wo)Man

Author's Note: Marvel owns what it owns, and I own what I own, let's keep it that way shall we? Don't Sue me!

T.W.: some mentions of violence and mentioned gendered violence (implied rape/sexual assault).

Recommended Listening: My Hero by Paramore, Mr. Sandman by The Chordettes, Spendin' All my Rainy Days With you Glenn Crytzer's Savoy Seven, Sh-Boom by Crew Cuts, Mad About the Boy by Helen Forrest and Carmen Dragon and His Orchestra, and Un Sospiro by Frank Liszt

* * *

Chapter 20: A Protector of (Wo)Man

Pulling his jacket closer, he watched the three men exit the apartment building and start their walk down the street, obviously very pleased with themselves. He'd waited outside his neighbor's door long enough to know that they weren't going to resort to violence before he'd staked out the exit he'd knew they'd use when they left. When they were a good fifty feet ahead of him, he started walking after.

This was very quickly becoming a habit. Whether this was a good or a bad habit, he was of two minds, but then again, he was of two minds about most things.

Fortunately, things had been relatively quiet, there hadn't been any further attempt by Hydra to bring him in, and he'd been able to shelter down in place for most of the winter, moving when he absolutely had to. The new year had come and gone, and now it looked like he was going to have to move again soon.

_You could've stayed longer had you not gotten involved._

That really was the trick, wasn't it? With Hydra he'd been trained to focus solely on the mission. The mission objective was paramount, no matter the cost. Yet, there was the other part of him, the part that had lived for twenty-six years as Bucky Barnes that wanted to help people, wanted to make this world less of a shit hole. After almost 70 years working with Hydra, he owed the world at least that.

It had started the day the elevator in the apartment building had gone out. There was a lady, his neighbor, struggling with her two small children and several bags of groceries. After ascending several flights of stairs, they'd made eye contact, they'd nodded at one another, and he'd asked her if she wanted help. It had gone from there. They'd nod at one another, talk about the weather, inquire after one another's health, and then climb the twelve flights of stairs up to their floor.

He didn't know her name, and they hadn't exchanged more than half a dozen words at any given time. However, from what he'd gathered, she was alone, raising two children. Where her children's father was, he didn't know, but something felt off about the entire thing. It started as only the barest twinge of an inkling in the back of his mind when he heard heavy booted footsteps come and go from her apartment every week around the same time. Then, one day he'd heard raised voices, something about a loan. Then he'd seen her, they'd made eye contact, and she'd turned away. He couldn't see any marks on her, but he could see her wince as she picked up her youngest child, and the limp as she started up the stairs.

_She's being harassed by loan sharks._

What precisely the circumstances were, he didn't know. Was that what had happened to her children's father? Had he been dying and she'd taken out the loan? His mind spun a universe of possibilities of what had happened to make her take out a loan with these people.

He could see Winifred Barnes, his mother, her hands gnarled and worn to the bone trying to make ends meet, see her expression worn and tired in the woman's features. He could see his sister Rachel, her heel broken, her nylons torn, walking home with a limp. He could see the wide eyes and fear of his sisters in the face of his neighbor. He could remember the gnawing hunger and the bitter cold and the desperation of being sick in the long cold months, the arguments he'd had with his parents over if he should take out a loan, just to make ends meet. He remembered the type of desperation you were driven to and the stories of what happened to those who couldn't pay back their loans.

_How will this keep you safe? How will this keep you from Hydra's clutches? Will that woman be any safer if you become one of their agents again because of your little act of generosity? _

He could see Natalia's expression, the absolute distaste she'd had for men that would beat defenseless women. He could see the way her jaw tensed, and her eyes narrowed. _Stay on mission_. He'd warned her. Yet she would never listen, and he would help.

He could see Steve Rogers, nose bleeding, with a fresh shiner after one of his many fights in a back alley. _Sometimes, I think you like getting punched. _Steve would look up at him, 'You don't understand Buck.' But he did understand. He'd always come to Steve's aid, and he'd always backed Steve up any time he needed.

He could hear Ramirez's voice, no more than a low growl, 'Let go of me, Jack...or I'll break your fucking hand before I break your face.' Her fists balled, ready to fight.

This shouldn't be a difficult thing, something that he debated point for point. Yet every time he'd done something like this since leaving Last Chance, it was the continuous debate. He knew which side would win, which side had to win. There wasn't a choice in this, only an absolute certainty that he needed to help.

His marks were talking loudly, their laughter boisterous and echoing as they walked. They were proud of a job well done, and the fear they inspired in their clients. He picked up the pace, and as if sensing someone was behind them, they started walking a little faster. _Cowards. _He wanted to inspire the same fear in them that he'd seen in the face of his neighbor. He wanted them to know what it was like to feel helpless.

They veered off into an alleyway. _Bad move. _He followed behind them, where the men found that the gate that was usually unlocked had been chained and padlocked. They turned around to face him.

"I need to talk to you." He said shortly.

The leader scoffed, "If you want to talk to business. You should come to my office."

"The widow's loan." He continued.

"The widow? You mean the _whore_?" The leader and his two stooges laughed.

He'd been willing, up until this exact moment, to be lenient. He didn't want to break every bone in their bodies, but he would, and now he would enjoy it.

It only took a second, and the two lackeys were laid out on the ground, and he had the leader pined against the wall by his neck. "What do you want? I'll do anything I swear!" The man sputtered, his feet desperately searching for the ground.

"Consider the widow's debt repaid as of now." He said, pulling a stack of bills from his pocket with his right hand and shoved them in the man's jacket. "And you cease your _valuable community service,_ immediately. Otherwise, you deal with _me._ Do you understand?" He growled, tightening his grip, the mechanisms in the prosthetic hand whirling and clicking.

The man whimpered.

"I said, do you understand me?"

"Yes, yes, please let me go!" He choked out.

"Good." He snarled, "Now get the hell out of here." He dropped the man and watched as he clambered to his feet and darted from the alley, his two associates still stunned. He glanced down at them as they came to. "I'd run if I were you."

They staggered into a run, nearly tripping over themselves as they went, and he watched them go. With any luck, that would be the end of it, but he would wait to make sure, and then it would be time to move on.

Pulling his jacket closer and adjusting his hood, he exhaled a long slow breath as a feeling of dread crept into his stomach. Had he made the right choice? He'd thought he'd made the right choice before, and it had ended in nothing but regret. This time he'd stick around long enough to make sure that nothing happened. He'd learned his lesson.

Walking out of the alley onto the main road, he shoved both hands in his pockets and started back toward the apartment complex as the snow began to fall around him in soft flakes. Things were going to be _okay _for the widow now. He'd make sure of that.

_It was raining, she'd been robbed, and one of her heels had broken. Limping down the sidewalk, nylons torn, knee bleeding, Maggie did everything she could to keep from crying. She could only hope she'd be able to get into her apartment, or that the landlord would be at home to let her in. Leaning against a signpost, she fumbled with the ankle strap, trying to undo it so she could at walk a little bit faster._

_Then she froze at the sound of footsteps approaching. Multiple footsteps. Loud, drunken, disorderly footsteps. Her heart started pounding. She didn'_ _t have anything else they could possibly want...unless. She stood up straight, hands balled in a fist, ready to turn around and fight when out of nowhere, a hand grabbed her arm._

_Maggie jerked back, whirling around, her free hand raised, turned to face the would-be assailant. _

_"Whoa. Whoa. It's just me." And there he was, silhouetted in the lamplight, like her knight in shining armor._

_"Bucky?" She stammered, lowering her hand, blinking through the rain and the tears._

_"Hey doll, I'm glad I found you. You okay?" He asked as he let go of her arm._

_"Bucky?" She repeated, her voice shaking, her control and resolve melting away in the rain. _

_"Can you walk?" He surveyed her quickly._

_"My...My shoe...oh my shoe..." She managed, tears starting to fall._

_"You're shaking, take my coat." He said, shrugging out of his jacket, draped it over her shoulders. "Let me get those for you." He knelt down, carefully unclasping the ankle strap, freeing her foot from her broken shoe before doing the same with her other shoe. Rising, he extended his hand to her. "Com' on, let's get you out of this rain." _

_Maggie nodded, taking his hand, they started walking, the loud, boisterous footfalls had dissolved into nothing. _

_"How'd you find me?" She asked, trying to still the shaking in her voice._

_"_ _Becca hadn't' heard from you, so she sent me to look," he explained, stopping as she stumbled. "Here, let me support you." He let her hand go, and put his right hand around her waist. _

_She was shaking, and the world blurred in and out of focus as the whole world spun. "It's okay. You're okay." He murmured._

_"Is it?" She tried to laugh._

_"_I_ suppose you're right." Bucky conceded after a moment. _

_"Do you often go and rescue your sister's friends from attackers in the rain?"_

_"I do, on occasion, provide specific search and rescue services when called upon."_

_Maggie chuckled, "What an upstanding citizen you are, James Barnes."_

_Bucky laughed softly, but said nothing, tightening his grip on her waist. _

_Her right hand on the hand he had around her waist, she pulled the coat closer to her with her left, leaning into Bucky_ _'s touch. It was firm but gentle as he guided her down the street. A thought occurred to her. "Barnes, where are we going? You don't know where I live." _

_"My folk's place isn't too far from here," Bucky replied after a moment. "We can wait out this rain, and find you some dry clothes."_

_Her stomach dropped. "Your parent's house? Bucky. I don't think- I mean. You bringing home a strange, wet, brown girl in the middle of the night? It isn't exactly the first impression I wanted to make on your family."_

_"Dad'll be on the night shift, and so it'll just be ma' and the girls." He answered. "Bec's been talking you up, and ma would have my hide if she knew I let you go home in this condition."_

_'This Condition?' She would've echoed indignantly, but the last dregs of her energy and fight had long expired, so she simply nodded and put her head against his shoulder as they walked the rest of the way in silence._

_They made their way up the stairs and to the back door. Bucky fished a spare key from under a brick and unlocked it, ushering her inside the dark kitchen. "I'll see if I can find you some dry clothes while we wait out the storm." He whispered as a crash of lightning and thunder rumbled overhead, shaking the dishes and rattling the windows "Stay here." He motioned to the kitchen table. _

_Turning, he froze as the kitchen light flickered on to reveal a Mrs. Winifred Barnes in a nightgown and robe, standing in the doorway, arms crossed, while three other curious faces peered around the corner. "James Buchanan Barnes, what do you think you're doing?" She asked pointedly._

_Bucky opened and closed his mouth, trying to find his words._

_"I_ _was mugged. Your son came and rescued me, and he wanted to make sure I got home safely, but it was raining, and your home was closer than mine. I am so sorry. I lost my key and didn't know what else to do. I was only going to wait out the storm. I didn't mean to cause any trouble." She rushed, near tears. "I'm so sorry, please don't be upset with him."_

_Mrs. Barnes expression softened. "Rachel, go get our guest some dry clothes. Abigail take her to get changed, Becca make up the couch for your brother's...friend." Winifred Barnes concluded pointedly before turning to her. "I didn't catch your name, dear."_

_"Magdalene Ramirez ma'am, but most people call me Maggie."_

_At this, Mrs. Barnes smiled warmly. "You're the one my daughter has been telling me so much about." _

_"Yes, ma'am." Maggie nodded urgently, tears nearly choking her as she tried to hold them back._

_"Well then, go with Abigail, you can stay with us for the night." Maggie followed Abigail from the kitchen, glancing back to catch the stern expression Winifred Barnes was leveling on her son._

_Then she was on the couch, wrapped in several blankets with a mug of warm milk, listening to the radio while the Barnes girls chatted quietly. Winifred Barnes sat in a severe chair kitting, and presiding over the whole thing. Bucky sat beside her, also wrapped in blankets, grasping a mug of warm milk in both hands, avidly avoiding eye contact with her. _

_"I didn't get you in trouble, did I?" She murmured into her mug._

_"No." He shook his head, hair wet and sticking to his face and forehead._

_"_ _Thank you for coming to my rescue." She said, looking down into her mug._

_"Any time."_

_They glanced at one another, making eye contact._

_"_ _Time for bed!" Winifred Barnes announced. Everyone rose to their feet. Abigail and Rachel bid Maggie and Bucky goodnight, followed by Becca before Mrs. Barnes turned off the radio. "Tell Miss Ramirez goodnight and go to bed, James."_

_"Good Night." He said almost bashfully, pecking her on the cheek like he'd done with sisters only moments before. Wishing his mother goodnight, he retreated down the hall without looking back._

_"_ _Goodnight, Mrs. Barnes." Maggie managed. _

_Winifred nodded firmly and walked to her bedroom, leaving the hall light on._

_Maggie had no doubt that woman had every night time sound memorized and that she would know if anyone was out of bed._

_Finishing off her milk, she set the mug on the coffee table, pausing as she caught a motion out of the corner of her eye. Bucky was standing out on the fire escape in the rain, beckoning her to come to the window. Carefully unwrapping herself from the mass of blankets, Maggie carefully made her way to the window. Opening it, Bucky stuck his head inside and kissed her, his hand cupping her face. They pulled away, a devilish grin on his expression. "You really thought I'd go to bed without giving you a proper goodnight kiss?" He murmured._

_"You're going to get us in trouble." She chuckled quietly._

_"We'll deal with that in the morning." He paused, his expression changing, becoming more grave and urgent. "You need to wake up."_

_"What?"_

_"Wake up, doll! You need to help Steve."_

Maggie jolted awake and immediately winced. "Fuck." She breathed.

She'd fallen asleep at the desk again. Her left arm and hand curled under her, her face on the keyboard. Someone had been kind enough to draw a blanket over her shoulders. She blinked blearily at the computer screen and smiled. The massive data file she'd been downloading had finally completed.

Maggie closed her eyes, trying to recall the rapidly fading dream. She remembered the rain, the warm living room with Mrs. Barnes watching her with those intense blue Barnes eyes. She remembered kissing Barnes on the fire escape, or rather the 1940s Barnes shaped entity of her dreams kissing her.

It had been strange. Since she'd started talking with Becca and learning more and more about the man and his life before being draft and sent off to the European theater during WWII, she'd been having increasingly vivid and suggestive dreams involving her and James Barnes. Her and Bucky going out dancing, her and Bucky at the fairgrounds, her and Bucky apparently going to meet his mother in the middle of a rainstorm at ten o'clock at night after she'd been mugged.

The last one made sense of a sort. She'd been chasing down a potential lead for weeks now and had been entirely absorbed in following that thread involving Barnes, apparently preventing mugging, assaults, and just general street harassment. The holidays and come and gone, and now she was facing the approaching the first anniversary of Barnes stumbling onto Last Chance Ranch. All things being equal, she'd really really like it if she didn't have to spend it in the tower.

_What's the likelihood that I'm actually going to find him._

She tried to ignore that thought, that nagging persistent feeling in the back of her mind. _We're going to find him, and then you'll get to go home._

Maggie sighed, pausing as the sounds of the apartment filtered into her still half-asleep brain. There was piano music and the smell of coffee brewing and breakfast being made. Panic overcame her, and she glanced at the time and moaned. "Steve!" She grumbled, hauling herself from the office chair and out into the apartment. "It's almost noon!"

"It is." He agreed without looking up from the frying pan, where he had two eggs cooking, sunny side up.

"You should've woken me up." She said, pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders. "What can I do?"

"Sit down and drink your orange juice." He replied. "Freshly squeezed."

Maggie rolled her eyes, sliding up onto the barstool she took a sip of the OJ Steve had made for her, mind still working through her dream. It had been strange. Dreaming about living in the 1940s and Bucky Barnes coming to the rescue? Bucky Barnes introducing you to his mother? Bucky Barnes kissing you in the rain? But then it had sorta switched and had given her a direct instruction. _You need to help Steve. _

Maggie glanced up. Steve was in his standard post work out attire and looked content, making eggs and bacon and toast. They were supposed to hear from Sam and Natasha today about one of their leads.

"I missed the briefing, didn't I?" She moaned slumping down and putting her head against the granite countertop

"Wasn't really anything to brief, besides it looked like you could use the rest."

Maggie sat back up, looking up at him. He was trying not to be disappointed, but it radiated from every pore. "I'm sorry, Steve."

"Just a false start, we'll find him," Steve said although it didn't sound like he believed it any more than she did.

She nodded. They'd had a lot of false starts, dead ends, and downright misses. It was hard, and it looked like it was taking its toll on him. She pondered on her dream, what Bucky, or her brain rather, had meant by _you have to help Steve. _She was helping Steve. She was helping him track down the man who'd ruined her life.

_No, not like that._

Maggie pulled out her phone, checking to see if the large file had synced with her other data. She paused, glancing between the phone and It wasn't a lead so much as it was hearsay, but it was _hopeful_, and that's what Steve needed at the moment. "You know how back in June last year I asked you what I thought Barnes was up to when he's not yanno, avoiding us?"

"Yeah. And I said I'd rather not think about it."

"Well. I found my answer." Maggie nodded, pinging the file to Steve's phone. "Check your phone. I can finish that up." She downed the orange juice and round the bar, taking the spatula from his unprotesting hand, his gaze focused on the phone screen.

"These...these are all him?" He asked uncertainly.

"From what I can gather, yes. They all match the same M.O. I've been trying to hack into security feeds to see if my hunch is correct. But right now, it looks like your friend is moonlighting as protector of man...well woman." She said, sneaking a glance at Steve, his eyes glued to the screen. "Does that sound in character for your friend?"

"Yeah...Yeah, Buck...he uhhh...he used to do that type of stuff Abigail...she uhhh...a guy," Steve stopped, clearing his throat. "Bucky made it a point to walk his sisters and their friends home. Same with the women he stepped out with. "He paused, glancing up at her. "Can we?"

"No." She shook her head. "All the stories are weeks, months old. Even if we could trace them back to their direct origins, it's not likely he'll still be there." She said. "But I'll see what I can do."

_So he has a history of protecting and or saving women from shitty men._ It wasn't just a fluke then that had happened back on the Ranch with Jack Roberts. How much left of Bucky Barnes, and how much of the soldier remained? They didn't know, but this was an encouraging sign, to say the least.

They ate their eggs in silence, Steve still pouring over the contents of the file she'd sent him.

Maggie couldn't help but think about that dream. It had felt so real—the physical and the emotional. _You're just touch starved and depressed you need a good lay and a therapist. _It was stupid. This was stupid.

So she hadn't been laid in a while, and meeting people was more or less out of the picture while she was on Hydra's shit list, and she'd more or less been inundated with warm and fuzzy stories from the man's sister about what a kind, charming, and delightful human being her brother was.

So she was developing a crush on James Barnes. No, she couldn't say that. She wasn't fantasizing about the James Barnes born March 15, 1919, who had fallen off the train in 1945 and been the Winter Soldier for the last seventy years. She was fantasizing about Bucky Barnes, American heartthrob, Howling Commando, and make-believe fictitious every man of her dreams. A man based solely on memories and recollections of his young sister and his best friend and or lover depending on the day.

To be fair, she was also reading massive quantities of reports, talking about all the horrible shit that the Winter Soldier had done over the course of the last 70 years. The guy had an impressive wrap sheet. But still, it was obvious that these were two very different people, living simultaneously in the body of the man who'd slept on her barn. She was the _only _one who knew the man in the post hydra context. But the part she had a crush on was the near-mythic 1940s sweetheart she'd seen in the newsreels and heard so much about since she'd started looking for the man.

Was this her way of maintaining the bare semblance of normalcy? Dreaming about going out on dates, having regular conversations, meeting normal people? _Being introduced to his mother?_

"Did your friend ever bring anyone home to meet his folks?" Maggie blurted out before she could stop herself.

Steve nearly choked on his eggs. "What?" He coughed.

Taking a large drink of her coffee, she bought herself a little bit of time. Why did she want to know that? Perhaps she was curious if Winifred Barnes had ever given Bucky the same look she'd seen in the dream? Maybe she wanted to know if Bucky had ever dated anyone who wasn't...well...part of the same demographic? But why did it matter? She wasn't going to be meeting Barnes any time soon, never mind his mother. But she _was_ curious. "Was Bucky ever serious enough with any of the Dames he stepped out with to bring em' home to the folks?" Maggie said nearly as amazed to hear that string of words come out of her mouth as Steve was.

"I wouldn't rightly know. Becca would know more so than me." Steve said. "Why?"

"No reason. Just curious." She answered as innocently as she could manage. She was absolutely not prepared to tell Steve that she was having cutesy 1940s wet dreams about his best friend and historical squeeze.

"I mean, Bucky was always the charming one. Girls lining up to dance with him, and of course, he was always the perfect gentleman, but at the end of the night, it was always just him and me." He paused. "I never was sure if I was jealous of Bucky or the girls." He shook his head. "Anyway. Doesn't exactly matter now, does it?"

"Well. It matters to you. Doesn't it?"

"It's complicated."

"It normally is." She agreed. She wasn't going to push him. He was having a hard time as it was, She wouldn't compound it.

"Thank you for coming and checking on me." She said after a long pause.

"Of course." Steve nodded. "You've been working so hard...I just wanted to make sure..." He paused. "Make sure that you know you have people looking out for you."

Maggie smiled. "I appreciate that Steve, thank you."

She surveyed him. He looked tired. Well. Not so much tired as just worn out. Stretched so thin he was nearly see-through. Something had been bothering him, but she couldn't quite make out what it was. Was it the Avengers? Was it Barnes? Or was it something else? He had made a couple of trips down to Washington DC to see Margaret Carter over the past few months, but she wasn't sure that was it either. Was it something between him and Sam? Surely Sam would've mentioned something if they were fighting. Whatever the case, Steve looked as though he could use a hug. If she was being honest, so could she, and it looked like Steve would give great hugs.

"Steve?" She said weakly after a moment.

"Yeah?"

"I could really use a hug."

"Yeah, me too." He agreed

They embraced one another. It wasn't a tight embrace, Steve it seemed was being gentle with her, handling her with care. But she was right, Steve gave amazing hugs, and she leaned into him. It had been forever since she'd just been held, and she missed it. There was a collective exhale as they just stood there, held momentarily in each other's arms.

They parted after a moment, and Steve cleared his throat.

"I appreciate it. Thank you for everything."

"Of course." He nodded.

Her phone buzzed, and Maggie grabbed it off the counter and frowned. "Damn. Becca had to cancel again." She muttered, quickly texting her back. "She's been really busy lately. Is everything okay? I mean with her and the family and everything?" Maggie glanced up at Steve, who had silently retreated back into the kitchen and was doing the dishes. "Steve?"

"Huh?" He replied, feigning like he hadn't heard her.

Maggie's frown deepened, a knot twisting in her stomach. He was being evasive. Something _was _wrong, something that Steve wasn't telling her, and that he wouldn't tell her if she continued to press him on it. "I was asking if you wanted to go to the MET. There's an exhibit that opened in December on Mbembe Art, 'Warriors and Mothers' I think it's called that I wanted to go see," She said. "I didn't want to drag Fabian along for hours and hours. Figured someone with your artistic skill and interest would be happier being drug along to the exhibit than personal security if you have the time, of course."

Steve sighed, it was inaudible, but Maggie could see some of the tension ease from his shoulders. "I'd like that, Ramirez. Let me finish up these dishes and get cleaned up."

She smiled, slipping her phone into her pocket, "Sounds like a plan."

Whatever was wrong, it could wait. She was doing what Bucky had asked. She was helping Steve, even if it meant being a distraction from their mission. Perhaps she'd be able to get something more about Barnes from Steve in a context divorced from the Avengers and Captain America. Aside from that, it would be good for them, living in the present, rather than in the past, in dreams and memories.

_You need to wake up, doll!_

That had been the other part of his instructions. Did he mean literally wake up? Or was it a different, more cryptic warning? _You can't live in a dream world._ Even though it was easier, it was nicer to live in dreams and imagine a life and a reality different than her own, perhaps it was time to wake up. Perhaps.

* * *

I know this was a shorter one, but I hope you all enjoyed! I know I enjoyed writing this particular chapter! I look forward to hearing what you all thought! Comments are always welcome and appreciated. Any guesses on what's going to happen? Or what Mags and the gang are going to get up to?

I look forward to hearing from you! Happy Reading!


	21. Goodbye Doesn't Mean Forever

Author's Note: Marvel owns what it owns, and I own what I own, let's keep it that way shall we? Don't Sue me!

TW: cancer, alcohol, unhealthy coping mechanisms, implied death

Recommended Listening: I'll be Seeing You by Billie Holiday, Ev'ry Time We Say Goodbye by Ella Fitzgerald, Dream a little Dream of Me by Ella Fitzgerald Louis Armstrong, For All We Know by Nat King Cole

* * *

Ch 21: Goodbye Doesn't Mean Forever

He didn't often look in the mirror. He found it unsettling, looking at the unfamiliar person in the reflection, staring back at him. Yet, he'd grown accustomed to it, over the past months, since leaving Last Chance, sneaking glances while he was brushing his teeth or just after showering. He didn't really look at himself while shaving, almost entirely engrossed in the process, trying not to nick or catch his skin. The issue of his hair had, however, meant he'd spent more and more time looking in the mirror as he tried to decide what he wanted to do with the long and increasingly tangled mess of hair.

He'd never had his hair this long. While he'd had long hair with Hydra, that had been for purposes of a quick disguise if compromised. In the time before Hydra, he could distinctly remember Steve and most of his family commenting any time his hair even started brushing the tops of his ears. His mother had given him most of his haircuts growing up. He could recall sitting in the bright kitchen, on a stool, newspaper spread around him, the snip, snip, snip of his mother's scissors working diligently to cut his hair evenly. Later, after he'd moved out, Steve would cut his hair, and he'd learned to cut Steve's hair, though he'd been rotten at it.

Steve had always better at that kind of stuff, had a better eye for that type of thing, anyway.

He ran his fingers through the long tangled mass of wet hair, in a feeble attempt to untangle a rather nasty knotted mass, and winced.

He could practically hear his youngest sister, Becca, complaining as he tried to untangle her hair.

"_Becca, I need you to hold still." He instructed firmly, the fingers of his left hand on the crown of her head, his right hand holding a brush. _

_"You're hurting me."_

_"_ _I promise I'm trying not to." He said, glancing over his shoulder at his mother, who was sitting at the kitchen table, her hands chapped and bleeding, the slightest hint of a tremor to them as she grasped a hot mug of coffee, trying to ease some warmth and life into them._

_"_ _You're doing just fine, James." She urged encouragingly, in her even kind tone, reserved for frightened animals and small children. _

He could hear the earnest way that Becca instructed him how to do her hair. Insisting that he do it over if he didn't get it right the first time. She couldn't have been more than six or seven at the time. Abigail and Rachel, they'd both be out of the house before Becca would be ready to go to school. He'd be getting off a night shift so he could help get Becca ready for school when their mother couldn't.

Reaching cautiously into the plastic shopping bag spread out on the bathroom sink, he removed a brush, an assortment of hair ties, and a package of scrunches in different colors. The clerk had asked if they were for his daughter. "For my little sister," he'd managed to mutter before leaving the store.

Pulling the brush through his hair, he winced and flinched as the brush bristles snagged and caught on the tangles.

_No wonder Becca had always complained when I brushed her hair._

When he'd thoroughly brushed out his hair, he carefully selected a couple of brightly colored hair ties, one in neon orange, the other in a royal blue, along with a pink satin scrunchie and a cream satin scrunchie. They were frivolous and stupid and served no function beyond aesthetics, but he'd seen them, and they'd reminded him of the many hair ribbons his sisters had tied or braided into their hair as girls.

He held the scrunchies in both hands, the satin caught and snagged on the metal plates of the prosthesis, but they were soft and silky as he slipped them on his right wrist. Hair ties gritted between his teeth, he fumbled awkwardly, gathering his hair up into a single bun on top of his head. It was harder than he remembered it being but eventually managed to secure the mass of hair on the top his head with a hair tie, and the pink satin scrunchie.

He surveyed his reflection critically. _Is that really what my ears look like? _He mused silently. His face looked different without all the hair hanging around it. He wasn't sure how he felt about it. It was just _strange._

"No." He shook his head, pulling both the scrunchie and tie from the bun and letting his hair fall freely back around his face.

How was it that his sisters had worn their hair when they were little? Braids and pigtails mostly, then as they'd gotten older, their hairstyles had gotten more complicated, involving pins and curlers, and every type of hair product you could imagine or make.

He parted his hair down the middle and gathered the two halves into two ponytails. First low at the base of his neck and then again on the crown of his head. Then he transformed them into buns.

Pausing to examine his work, he couldn't help but crack a small smile at his reflection. He could hear his sisters giggling as they ran their fingers through his hair. _You don't have enough hair for curlers! _They'd commented as they'd tried to put his hair up in pin curls.

He had more than enough hair for them now. He couldn't help but observe. He could practically hear his mother scolding him, _James Buchanan Barnes, sit down and let me cut your hair right this instant! How could you have allowed it to get so long?_ He could see her go for the scissors she used specifically for cutting the family's hair. He could see Steve snickering in the corner, barely able to keep a straight face.

Of course, by the time he'd left, Abby and Rachel were grown women with jobs and lives of their own, and Bec, Bec, of course, had been well on her way. None of them had needed his help with their hair and hadn't for years. Yet, he couldn't help but think how simple it had all seemed, now, looking back, after everything that had happened.

He returned his gaze to the mirror. _No. They're too visible, the colors too bright, you'd draw too much attention. _He sighed, pulling the hair ties and scrunches from his hair and set them aside, picking up the brush again. How difficult everything seemed now.

Did she remember him? He couldn't help but wonder. Did she remember him helping her get ready for school in the morning, and how horribly he'd done her hair those first few times? Did she remember him at all? How long had it taken his family to stop speaking of him in the present tense, to stop speaking of him at all?

He shook his head. It wasn't his place to wonder that. His only responsibility was staying away, staying alive, and staying out of Hydra's hands.

* * *

Maggie was excited. She could tell by the way her knee was bouncing up and down in the seat as the familiar Brooklyn skyline came into view, and they turned down Becca's street. It had been a little while since she'd been able to meet up with Becca, and she had news. She'd been able to get clearer photos from security footage in Belfast, Copenhagen, and Berlin showing Bucky beating up street harassers. On top of that, she'd been able to narrow down where he was likely headed.

"I'll see you at four, Fabian!" She called into the car as she climbed out and shut the door behind her.

Running up the steps, she knocked on the door. "Hey Bec-" She faltered at the sight of James Martinez-Proctor. "Hi. I'm sorry, I didn't realize Becca had company, I can come back another time."

"No. No. Come on in Ms. Ramirez. She's expecting you." James waved her in the door. "How have you been?"

"Oh, busy. I trust you, and all of your family have been well," She replied as he ushered her into the living room. Maggie stopped, a sinking feeling of dread twisting in the pit of her stomach. Two of Becca's, daughters Mary and Stephanie, were sitting on the couch talking quietly but stopped when they saw her, turning their gazes to her.

"Mother is in her room resting. She told me to tell you to head on back whenever you arrived." James said, putting his hand on her shoulder.

Maggie nodded but said nothing walking in an almost dream-like haze back to the master bedroom. _This isn't what it looks like. It can't be. _She repeated to herself like a mantra over and over and over again as if it would make it true.

Pausing in the doorway, she found Becca sitting in an overstuffed La-z-boy, a book on her lap, glasses in her hands, dozing quietly.

Maggie felt as though all the air had been sucked from the room, and she was suffocating. She had been here before, and she knew what came next.

"How long have you been standing there, dear?" Becca's voice brought her back, rooting her solidly in the moment.

"Just showed up." Maggie smiled weakly. "You sure you're feeling up for visitors?"

"Of course." She nodded. Scooting over in the chair, Becca pat the space beside her. "Come here and tell me your news. You sounded excited in your texts, and I wanted to hear it in person."

Maggie obliged, settling down beside Becca in the large chair, she opened up her satchel and removed the photographs she'd made of the security footage. It all felt hollow. "So. You know how I told you back in mid-February that Bucky had been protecting people, women, and girls mostly, from street harassers and the like? Well, I was able to gain access to the security feeds and caught a few clips of him. In the act." She said, holding them out for Becca.

"That's wonderful," Becca said, taking each of the photographs one by one in hand and surveying them carefully.

"And I think I may have found a lead that will narrow down his location."

Becca set the photographs down and turned and looked at her, meeting her gaze fully for the first time. "You really have been working very hard, Maggie. I appreciate it tremendously, as do all of my children."

"Of course. I want to bring your brother home. I want you to be able to see him again."

"I know sweet girl." Becca smiled sadly, grabbing Maggie's hand, squeezed it weakly. "I know. But sometimes things don't work out the way we'd like them to."

So it was true. Everything that Maggie hadn't been putting together was true. The prolonged sickness, the increase of family, Steve's weird moods. Becca was dying. Maggie nodded, swallowing hard as a lump formed in her throat. "How long?"

"A few weeks, a month at most. But I've known for a while now, cancer's a terrible thing, but it's given me enough time to put my affairs in orders." Becca paused as an errant tear slipped down Maggie's cheek. "Now Now." She said, wiping Maggie's face. "It's okay. I'm not in any pain, and I'm living out my last days the way I want. Surrounded by the people I love and who love me very much."

_Why didn't you tell me,' _Maggie wanted to ask. But that wasn't her place really, it wasn't any of her business, but she felt hurt and betrayed.

"I didn't want you to fret, and I didn't want to ruin our lovely visits with the dark specter of my frail mortality," Becca said gently. "Please don't cry for me. I've lived a wonderful life."

Maggie nodded, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I couldn't find him in time." She choked out, her voice small.

"Oh no, don't do that." Becca shushed. "I've known for a while now I wasn't going to see him again." The woman paused, her thoughts going far away before she pulled herself back. "If I'm honest with myself, I'm not sure I'd want him to see me like this. I think perhaps it's better this way. To be able to remember one another as we were, not what the world made us into." She said, taking Maggie's hand again. "What matters, Magdalen is that Bucky brought you and me together."

"What do you mean?"

"You wouldn't be here if not for him, and I wouldn't have gotten to talk about my brother again if not for you." Maggie opened her mouth to interject, but Becca charged on. "You've helped me to talk about someone I loved dearly, but hadn't spoken of since he'd disappeared. You helped me process and heal and grieve in so many ways that I can't possibly express, but I am extraordinarily grateful to you." Becca smiled wearily. "Bit by bit I've been giving him to you, you know, my Bucky, that way when you find him, and I know you will, you can tell him that his little sister, and all of his family for that matter, never forgot about him and that we loved him very much."

"I'll do my best." Maggie managed weakly.

"I know you will. And that's all that I can ask of you, all anyone can ask of another person." Becca said, surveying Maggie's face, she cracked a small smile. "I know I've said this before, but it's a shame we didn't meet sooner. I've had such a good time getting to know you. I can only imagine how we would've gotten along and gotten into trouble back in the day. Bucky, my Bucky, would have loved you."

Maggie chuckled, shaking her head, "Thank you, Becca." She could hardly imagine anyone, least of all Bucky Barnes giving her the time of day. Above all, Maggie couldn't imagine being in a place that allowed her a relationship, not when it felt like every time she started to build something with another person, they were ripped away from her. It had happened too many times, and now it appeared it was happening again.

"Oh, I know you don't believe me, but I know it true because I love you, so very very much, Magdalen," Becca said.

There was a long pause while Becca plotted out what she was going to say next. "It's not your job to look after Steve. He's a grown man, he should be able to take of himself, but-" Becca wavered. "Don't let him forget who he is, beneath all of the Captain America bullshit. Make sure he remembers that there is life beyond all of that waiting for him."

Maggie chuckled but nodded. "I will absolutely do my best on that."

"Good." Becca smiled. "Now, before I send you on your way home, I think I have a couple more stories left in me. If you're interested in hearing them."

"Always," Maggie said.

They talked for nearly four hours. When Becca ran out of stories, Maggie asked questions about family holidays and traditions, what foods she remembered Steve and Bucky had liked, doing anything and everything to drag out the time, and keep the clock from marching unrelentingly forward. Yet, onward and onward time marched, and Maggie knew their last visit would be drawing to a definitive close. As the older woman began to nod off in the chair beside her, Maggie knew it was time. "I should let you get some rest," Maggie said gently, collecting her things she rose from the chair.

"You're a good girl." Becca smiled. "Come here." She waved Maggie to her. Immersing her in a hug, Becca stroked the back of her head. "You're a wonderful person and a beautiful, beautiful soul, Magdalen, it's been an honor and privilege getting to know you."

"Thank you, Becca, thank you for everything." Maggie could feel the tears starting again, and she'd been doing so well too.

"Of course, my dear." Becca smiled as they pulled apart from their embrace. Becca held Maggie's hands in both hers, her thumbs stroking Maggie's hands. "It's going to be okay. You know that, right? No matter what happens. It's going to be all right."

Maggie took a deep breath and nodded, blinking slowly. She didn't want to say goodbye, didn't want to let go, didn't want to walk out the door knowing that she would never see her friend again. "I know."

"I love you."

"I love you too, Becca." Maggie managed, tears now flowing down her face.

"You have so much to live for, dear girl. Don't let the past weigh you down." Becca said.

Maggie nodded again, turning at the sound of a knock at the door. It was James. "I'm sorry to interrupt. It's time for meds and dinner. If you'd like to stay, Ms. Ramirez, we have plenty ."

Maggie staggered to her feet, wiping her face. "No. No. I should go. I don't want to take up any more of your time." She turned to Becca, squeezing the woman's frail hand gently. "Sleep well. We'll talk soon." Maggie tried to smile.

"Send Stark my regards."

"Always." Maggie nodded, letting go of Becca's hand, walked past James, from the bedroom and out of the apartment where Fabian was waiting for her. She didn't look back. She knew that if she had, the whole world would've crumbled, and she would've collapsed on the pavement right then and there.

Maggie rode back to the tower in silence, clutching her bag to her, her hands clenched on the canvas, her jaw gritted. Walking into her apartment, she made a beeline for the office, pulling open her files, and removing her journal from her bag. She tried to focus on her breathing, trying to regulate her heartbeat, tried to bend her body and her mind around the single objective she was now striving toward. She had to find James Barnes. She had to find James Barnes before it was too late. Nothing else mattered. Becca deserved closure, deserved to see her brother again, even one last time, and Maggie wanted to make sure that happened.

Her hands moved frantically over her files, adrenaline and grief, and anger making her shake. Her eyes focused on the computer screen scrolling through every map, SAT scan, every bit of intel they'd collected since last May.

It took everything she had, every fiber of her being to remain calm, and keep focused as a cauldron of emotions bubbled and boiled just below the surface, threatening to overflow at any given moment. Her head ached, and her eyes watered, but she continued working, trying to overtake Barnes and the clock.

Beneath it all, a single ember burned, white-hot, burning a jagged hole in her. This was unfair. What was worse was that she knew it was unfair because she'd been here before, and she hated it. She hated how it had been kept from her, hated what it meant, hated that she'd failed.

"Come in. It's unlocked," She called absently at the knock at the door.

"How you holding up?"

Maggie stopped, blinking blearily, she looked over the computer screen to the doorway where Sam was standing. "What do you mean?"

"Steve told me, about Becca," Sam said, haltingly.

"You mean, he knew?" Maggie asked. The room dropped several degrees.

"Mags- I-"

"Tell me he didn't know, Sam." Again Sam said nothing, and Maggie could feel the tight knot in her chest constrict. "Sammie?" Maggie's voice cracked.

"He knew she was sick. He didn't know she was dying until November."

_Her birthday._ The low, hushed conversation as she'd woken up to. The strange mood he'd been in all through the holidays. It all made sense. He'd known Becca was dying, and he hadn't told her anything. He'd known, and he hadn't hinted that maybe they should hurry up, that maybe Maggie should do better, that maybe there was something urgent about their search for Barnes. Steve had known her friend was dying and had said nothing.

"Sam, where is he?" She asked her voice, choked with tears.

"Mags-"

"Sam, where is he!?" She snapped her voice echoing in the small space.

"Croatia."

"And he sent you to clean up his mess, did he? Great." Maggie drawled sarcastically, wiping at the tears streaming down her face.

"Mags."

"Did you know Sam? Did you keep this from me too?"

"No. Steve just told me about thirty minutes ago."

"So you _are_ here to clean up his mess. _Perfect_." Maggie laughed harshly as she rose to her feet.

"What do you want me to say, Mags?" Sam asked, following her to the kitchen.

"Not a damn thing, Sammie. I don't _expect_ you to do anything." Maggie said, pulling a bottle of wine off the counter, she opened it and took a large draw.

Lowering the bottle, she walked back toward the office. "So. What's our move? Where do we look for Barnes next?"

"Mags."

"We know he's in Europe. We know he's in Eastern Europe." She went to the map, taking another drink from the bottle.

"Mags."

"So what are we missing? What have we overlooked? What am I not seeing?" She muttered.

"Mags. You're upset. You need to slow down and process."

"I can't, Sammie." She shook her head.

"Can't? Or won't?"

Maggie raised the bottle to her lips, then reconsidered. Squeezing her eyes shut, she shook her head, wincing.

Sam sighed, "What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to find Barnes." Her voice came out choked and small. "There isn't another option."

"We've been looking since-"

"Since Hydra burned our house to the ground, smashed my hand, and left me for dead." She cut him off, whirling around to face him. "That about sum it up?" Maggie bit out with a harsh laugh. "I need to do this, Sam. I need to find Bucky. I need to bring him home so Becca can have closure so that they can say goodbye."

"And what if you can't?" Sam asked.

"That's not an option."

"You know that's not true."

She looked up at the ceiling, blinking back tears before continuing in a low, more controlled tone. "Sam. This is Becca Barnes. This is the little sister of James Barnes, Steve's best friend and lover. After all the shit Bucky has gone through, and Becca has gone through, they deserve to say goodbye, properly. They deserve better."

There was a long pause before Sam spoke. "Mags. This isn't Antonio. This isn't your mother, or your grandfather, or Riley. You can't change what happened to you by trying to find Barnes for Becca Proctor."

Maggie didn't say anything. She just rolled her eyes, and she took another drink.

"Have you eaten anything today?"

"I'm not hungry."

"I can make you something."

"Sammie."

"You should probably eat something, Mags."

Maggie turned to him, "You don't have to do this, Sam."

"Do what?"

"Pretend that I'm anything more than just a painful memory," She said weakly. "That's what I was to my father after my brother and mother died. That's what I was to my grandfather there near the end, and that's what I am to you."

There was a long silence as Sam worked out what to say. "Is that really all you think you are?"

Maggie shook her head, finishing off the rest of the wine. "Doesn't matter." She walked over to her desk and dropped the empty wine bottle in the recycling can under her desk. She exhaled a strangled sigh as she saw her phone buzz. It was Steve.

"You going to answer that?" Sam asked.

"You tell him to call me?" Maggie replied, sending the call to voice mail.

"He wants to talk to you."

"I don't have anything to report, and I have work to do." She said, wiping her face with the sleeve of her hoodie.

"Mags. You can't avoid him. He wants to talk to you. He needs you to understand-"

"I know why he didn't tell me. Becca didn't want him to. She didn't want me to fret before I needed to, didn't want me to be sad or be worried, or whatever. She did it to protect me." Maggie said shortly as she logged back into her computer. "I don't feel protected, and I don't feel protected by _him_ at the moment."

"You know he's grieving too."

"He's not my partner, brother, father, or son. His feelings are _not _my problem right now, not if he wants me to find Barnes any time this century."

"He is your friend, and you're his."

"Is he? Because I don't think friends would keep something like this from their friends. Best intentions and all of that be dammed."

Sam sighed, nodding. "You're going to have to talk to him eventually."

"Eventually." She echoed. "Thank you for stopping by. You can report to Steve that I'm pissed, but ready to work to bring Barnes in." She said shortly.

"All right, I get it. You want to be left alone." He said. "I'll be around if you decide you want company."

"Can do."

Sam hesitated in the doorway of the office, "Be careful, Maggie," he said finally before walking from the office and from the apartment.

Maggie exhaled a long and shaking breath as the front door shut behind him. She wanted to call him back, wanted to apologize, wanted to ask him to hold her while she sobbed, ask him to tell her it was going to be okay, but nothing her or anyone could do or say at the moment was going to make this better. She had to focus on the task ahead of her, she had one job, one mission, one objective, and she was going to fulfill it, consequences be damned.

"Okay, Maggie, focus, you don't have long." She wiped at the tears streaking her cheeks.

Then, slowly she reached down to the bottom drawer of the desk, unlocked it, and removed the thick sealed packet Romanoff had given her months ago. _The point of no return. _

_If I can't find Barnes, I can't go home. _She fingered the seal, swallowing hard. _If I can't bring Barnes home to say goodbye to his sister, then do I really deserve to go home? _Maggie broke the seal and opened the file. Setting it on the desk, she adjusted her chair, picked up a pencil and her notebook, and extended her left hand to the first page, ignoring the way that her whole body trembled.

"Well," She sniffled to the office and the world in general, "there's nothing else for it. Let's get to work."

* * *

Full disclosure, the next two chapters are dealing with the fall out from this chapter. I will be posting in rapid succession to get the chapters out of the way. Thank you all for reading I look forward to hearing what you all think. (*dodges the rotten fruit* I know I know I'm mean I'm sorry!) As always I love hearing from you and love chatting fic with all you guys! I hope you enjoyed? And See you next time!

~Happy Reading!


	22. The Show Must Go On

Author's Note: Marvel owns what it owns, and I own what I own, let's keep it that way shall we? Don't Sue me!

TW: self-harm, self-harm ideation, bad coping mechanisms

Recommended Listening: The Boxer by Mumford and Sons, Show Must Go On by Queen, Thistle Weeds by Mumford and Sons

A/N: I'd also like to say thank you to everyone who commented. You guys are rockstars and your reactions fuel me.

* * *

Ch 22: The Show Must Go On

Winter was slowly giving way to spring, and it felt the entire world was out in the streets and parks of the city, basking in the feeble warm light of the sun. He had ventured outdoors and was sitting on a park bench, watching the assorted mass of humanity moving through the public space.

There were, of course, the vendors and tradesmen hawking their wares, everything from peanuts and pretzels, to knock off handbags and watches. There were families with young children in tow, teenagers in droves with that unmistakable air of newfound freedom on their faces. There were couples, young and old, holding hands, sharing sweets, and smiling broadly at one another. There were individuals throwing frisbees or balls with their dogs, or groups of friends just laughing and chatting and having a good time.

All of them blissful and happy and very clearly enjoying themselves, unaware of his watchful gaze. He removed his journal from his backpack and opened it to a blank page.

He'd been thinking more about his life before, about his family, his parents, sisters, and Steve. Days like this, bright, warm days with a cool breeze made it easier to think about the before, and the sensory input made memories crash against him in waves.

The cool grass and clear blue sky filled with puffy white clouds. He could remember lying in the grass elbow to elbow with Steve, watching the clouds float by. He could remember the long strolls and family picnics when the family all managed to get time off at the same time.

The sizzle of meat cooking and the gentle sound of water splashing reminded him of their trips down to the boardwalk the calls and cries of the vendors helped him recall their many trips down to Coney Island.

There was the smell of popcorn, and he could practically taste the movie popcorn when he, Steve and Becca, went to the movies. Steve and Becca would always chat excitedly on their way back home through their favorite parts. They'd gone to see Snow White five times. Steve had been impressed with the animation. He'd talked about the techniques uses to produce the movement and color for months after the fact.

The sounds of pleasant laughter and talking. He'd often walked with Becca to the soda fountain after school. She'd always tell him about her day, what had happened, what she'd learned, and of course, the ever-changing school gossip and teenage drama.

It had all felt so boring, so mundane. He'd felt trapped. Trapped in a routine to which there was no escape. How wrong he'd been.

He looked down at the blank page. What could he say? What was there to say that would even begin to touch what he was feeling, how he was feeling, what he was remembering.

Adjusting the pen in his grip, he wrote. "Today I remembered..." he didn't know how to continue. "What it meant to live?" He concluded with a question mark, which he traced over several times in heavy black ink.

It was corny, and cliche, and downright stupid, but it was true. What he had done over the past seventy years could hardly be considered living. There were aspects of it that did involve living. He'd eaten, slept, on occasion, he'd even developed a few relationships, some more memorable than others. Yet, that was minuscule compared to the rest of it. Hydra had wielded him like a weapon: used him, repaired him, and then stored him for future deployment.

He glanced around. Was he living now? What would living mean after 70 years of being nothing more than a hostage and implement? He wasn't living right now. He was barely surviving. He wasn't even ready to face Steve and come face to face with his past in any way more real than the Smithsonian. What would it mean to go home? Could he go home one day? Reunite with his sister and go back to drinking root beers at the soda fountain? What would that look like? Could he reconcile what he'd spent seventy years doing, with the person Steve and Becca remembered? Could they? He didn't know, and he wasn't sure he wanted an answer.

Snapping the journal shut, he shoved it back in his backpack and removed the lunch he'd packed for himself. That was a question to be answered another day. Right now, surviving and living had to be one and the same. Maybe someday it wouldn't have to be, but for today he didn't have a choice.

* * *

Maggie was in a briefing. That's what her life was at the moment, a never-ending series of briefings, punctuated with the trappings of living a healthy human-person life. She ate, worked out, practiced her languages, worked on work stuff for Steve, Sam, and Romanoff. Occasionally, she even slept, though, at the moment, it was fitful and often ended in nightmares.

"What do you have for us, Ramirez?"

Maggie blinked, suddenly aware that Sam and Steve were both directing their full attention to her, aware that she'd been drifting. She cleared her throat, rising to her feet. "Argentina." She said shortly, pulling out satellite images, and supporting documents. "I found an old Hydra base in Argentina."

She'd been going through the files that Nat had given her. Most of them were in Russian, but Maggie had been surprised when one of them had contained Russian and Spanish, leading her to the discovery of the old base. "It appears to be a medical and scientific experimentation field laboratory. There was some kind of explosion back in the 1990s. I haven't been able to find anything about the causes of the explosion. However, from what I've gathered, Hydra was operating in Argentina as early as 1945. Then with some increased frequency in the 1970s. I don't think Barnes is headed there, but I do think it might give us some more leads on where he is, or where other Hydra research laboratories might be." She explained.

She showed them what the SAT scans had revealed, and how deep underground the compound went, as well as the historical and political significance of the area to Hydra, the United States, and post-war Germany. When she concluded, she turned her focus back on Steve and Sam, who were both deep in thought.

"Ramirez, I'm going to put you and Wilson on this. You know the language, you'd be able to communicate better with the locals and be able to get updated intel on the area without creating too much suspicion. I'll send your information over to get you the proper paperwork and documents for you to travel out of the states." Steve said firmly. "Wilson. I'd still like you to go to Prague and Warsaw, just to check up on what Romanoff found. So. Two weeks? And then you and Ramirez will go to Argentina. Fly into Buenos Aires and obtain ground transport from there to where you need to go."

"Sounds like a plan, Cap.'" Sam nodded.

"Sounds good." Maggie agreed with a heavy sigh, sinking back down into her office chair.

"All right, meeting's adjourned," Steve announced.

"See y'all tomorrow, same time then unless anything changes." She mumbled, returning her focus to a folder she'd set aside, and started pulling out documents.

It would be nice to get out of the office for a bit—a trip to Argentina to track down a rogue nazi-hydra assassin. Maggie couldn't help but feel a little excited. She was living out a personal spy, international woman of mystery fantasy. But in the back of her mind was a nagging question, unrelenting and unceasing, would it be enough? Would it lead them to Barnes in time?

She could hear Sam and Steve talking by the door, and then Sam walked out of the office and to the kitchen, leaving her and Steve alone.

"Hey, Ramirez." Steve began slowly, and she looked up to find him standing squarely in front of her desk.

He was dressed in his Captain America outfit, posture straight and rigid as a statue. Of course, he'd been kind enough to leave the cowl back upstairs, but she could still tell it was Captain Rogers, rather than Steve that she was speaking to. Over the last week and a half, she had done her best to avoid him, which hadn't been hard considering he'd been in and out of the tower for missions, and she'd downright refused to speak to him if they did run into one another. It was petty, but she knew she didn't have anything productive to say to him, and that she didn't want any distractions from what she was doing. She was going to find Barnes, and she was going to bring him home to say goodbye.

"Can I help you with something?" She asked crisply.

"Sam told me. Can we talk? Please?"

"No," Maggie said flatly.

"Oh. Okay. That's fine." He stammered.

There he was, there was Steve Rogers, under the mask, behind the shield of Captain America. That was the man that Becca knew, that was the man who'd chosen to withhold valuable, time-sensitive information from her. "I know that's not what you want to hear, but frankly, there's nothing you can say to me that I want to hear, and presently, there isn't anything that I want to say to you. So until that changes, I feel that it's important that we're able to maintain a professional working relationship."

Steve nodded, "Okay. I understand." He hesitated, "Thank you. For all of your hard work. It means a lot to me, and I know it means a lot to Bec-"

"As I said before, _Captain,_" Maggie interjected, pronouncing his rank so sharply that she might have cut him down where he stood if it had been a knife. "There's nothing you can say to me that I want to hear, and there's nothing more that I want to say to you. So unless you have further business matters to discuss, I think we're done here." She said shortly, tears were close to the surface, threatening to choke her, but she kept her voice steady.

"Keep me informed on anything you find. I'll let you know of any status changes."

"Understood." Maggie nodded firmly.

Steve paused a moment, surveying her, opening his mouth, he looked as though he was about to say something, but instead, shut his mouth again and walked from the office and the apartment followed by Sam.

Maggie was alone. "Fu-ck!" She moaned, stretching the word out into at least two syllables. Throwing both arms over her face as she leaned back in the office chair.

Her head pounded, her whole body ached, and she felt dizzy and light-headed. She wanted a nap, a pot of coffee, a long shower, a good orgasm, and a steak, in no particular order. She wanted to stop hurting. She wanted to be able to sleep. She wanted to be able to go down the block to get tacos from the food truck without it becoming a security issue. She wanted the unrelenting pressure behind her eyes to ease, and the persistent crick in her neck to disappear. She wanted to scream, and cry, and throw the biggest temper tantrum any 31-year-old woman could throw. But she knew it wouldn't change anything. It wouldn't help her nightmares, it wouldn't help her anxiety, her depression, and it wouldn't stop the ever itching urge to crush a glass bottle in her hand, just to watch herself bleed.

Maggie sat upright, picking up the Captain America Stress doll. Squeezing it as hard as she could, Maggie couldn't help but feel a little satisfaction watching the doll's eyes bulge to the point of nearly popping as she worked the little rubber figurine.

Eyes. She could still see their eyes, watching her, piercing her body and soul with their unrelenting, unstoppable gaze. They stood around her, in silence at first, Her mother, her brother, her grandparents, Riley, Tim, Alice, Suzanne, Bill, Mike, Mitchell, James, and all the other people of Last Chance Ranch, and of course Becca and all of her family alive and dead, staring with dead eyes, watching her, waiting expectantly. Then he was there. Not James Barnes but also not the Winter Soldier. It was Matt. The man she'd found in her barn.

_I thought you said you were going to help us? _The voice was accusing and cold. _I thought you said you were going to help!_

Around the circle of faces, the phrase was echoed in a thousand different way in a thousand different iterations, as their faces twisted into horrible, ghoulish caricatures, laughing and mocking her. Their voices echoed as they came closer and closer, until they were on top of her, crushing her, suffocating her with their weight.

She'd woken up nearly every night with an iteration of that dream, gasping for air, and crying. Now, it just didn't feel worth it to sleep. Or at least to willingly go to sleep.

_Can't work, can't sleep, so it's time to go and work out. _

Maggie rose and went to change. She was too exhausted to handle firearms, and at any rate with the way she was feeling, she shouldn't be trusted with anything sharper than a spork at the moment. So she'd been lifting weights and running more recently. It was the only way she could sleep. Run herself into the ground until the exhaustion overtook her brain's inability to shut off.

The treadmill was set too fast, but Maggie didn't care. It was thrilling, knowing any second she'd be headed for calamity. Strangely, she liked the way her heart pounded, and her lungs ached, even as every part of her screamed at her to stop.

This wasn't healthy. This wasn't a healthy way to be coping. If she'd been talking to one of her guys, she would've suggested upping their visits, going to see a psychiatrist and getting on meds. Seeking help to disrupt the destructive spiral they were in and find a way to start processing their grief and trauma begin the healing process. Only she wasn't talking to one of her guys. She _knew_ she was in a self-destructive spiral. The only question was, _so what?_ What did it matter? Who cared? Or who cared enough to say anything? After all, she was just and only collateral damage. What would it matter if she just fell off the edge of the earth?

As if the universe was listening, Maggie tripped, and the treadmill spat her out onto the gym floor, face down. She'd fallen all right. Just not off the face of the earth as hoped. Maggie lay there a moment, temporary stunned, uncertain if she should laugh or cry.

Slowly, she realized someone was prodding her. Rolling onto her back, she found Nat standing over her. However, rather than the amused expression Maggie expected, there was a line of concern etched between her brows. "You all right?" Romanoff asked.

"Oh. Just peachy. You come to finish me off?" She moaned, pushing herself into a sitting position.

"I could." She nodded, glancing around. "But Stark has this place under pretty good surveillance that with the added hassle of getting rid of a body in uptown manhattan at this time of night on a Saturday, more effort than its worth." A corner of her mouth twitched in what could almost be considered the faintest hint of a smile and extended her hand to Maggie.

"Thanks? I think?" She took Romanoff's hand, and the woman pulled her to her feet with ease.

"You look like you want to punch someone."

"That about sums it up."

"They're worried about you, you know?"

"Sam and Steve?"

"Yeah."

"Well, ain't that special." Maggie drawled, rolling her eyes. So Steve had told Romanoff as well. It seemed like everyone in the tower knew that she was upset. _Fantastic. _This was absolutely the last thing she needed, coddling.

"So, who do you want to punch?"

"Steve? Sam? Barnes? Anyone of them I could get my hands on at the moment."

"Well." She paused, surveying her. "You're not going to be able to do that in your condition. Come on." She took Maggie by the arm and led her over to the punching bags. "Do you know how to punch?"

"I haven't in a while, but I'm sure the mechanics are the same."

"Do you know how to punch with your hand being like that?" Romanoff amended, motioning to Maggie's left hand, with her chin.

"Don't use the hand Hydra crushed?" Maggie asked, voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Let me show you how. The last thing you wanna do is risk re-injuring yourself. And if you're going to punch anyone, you're going to need to practice." She answered, glancing her up and down. "First, you use gloves."

Maggie watched as Romanoff explained how to wrap her hands before demonstrating. Maggie then spent thirty minutes painstakingly applying tape to both hands before even so much as touching a boxing glove or punching bag.

Then, once she showed her some basic moves and techniques, Maggie went to town on the bag, Romanoff occasionally stopping to correct her form.

"You feel better?" She asked as they sat down on the gym floor for a water break.

"I feel tired and achy." Maggie tried to chuckle.

"Well, that's a start," She commented, passing the water bottle to her.

Maggie took a long drink. She wasn't sure how to feel. Everything hurt, yet she felt numb, she wanted to cry, and yet she knew no tears would come. She glanced over at Romanoff who was just sitting next to her, looking straight ahead at the bag they'd just been boxing with.

"So when are we going to spar?"

She snorted. "I don't think that's a good idea."

"What? Afraid you're going to break me?"

"From the looks of things, that wouldn't be entirely unwelcome."

Maggie sighed, rubbing her forehead with the back of her glove. "Well. I don't think it would matter if you did."

"You're upset."

"No shit," Maggie rolled her eyes standing back up.

"You're not thinking clearly." Romanoff amended.

"Clearly."

"Then there would be no sport in kicking your ass sparring," She said, rising to her feet beside her, paused, "How does your hand feel?"

"Fine. Numb, which is more or less normal at this point." Maggie grimaced as she turned to her. "This isn't going to be a metaphor about how time heals all wounds is it, Romanoff?"

"No. This is a 'your left hand will probably never be as strong as it had been, no matter what you do, and you should be aware and take steps not to re-injure your hand' discussion."

"So the saying is true, what doesn't kill you leaves you with crippling scars. Great. I'll be sure to keep that in mind." She said, returning to punching the bag as hard as physically possible.

"What's going on, Ramirez. You're not actually this pissed at Steve. You know he was only doing what Becca asked. So what is it?"

Maggie turned to look at her. "You a therapist now too?"

"No. But I am good at reading people."

Maggie scoffed, shaking her head. "I have baggage, all right?"

"Well, you're letting it distract you. You can't win a fight if you're not focused. So what's this about?"

"What? Like I'm going to bare my soul to you?"

"If you think it'll help."

Maggie said nothing, punching the bag harder. She wanted to hurt someone, wanted to make them feel the pain she was feeling. She wanted to hurt herself just so she could regain a semblance of control in this absolutely fucked situation, but she couldn't. It wouldn't make things any better or any easier. Above all, it wouldn't give her the control that she desperately wanted.

"Alright, let's get in the ring."

"You just said there was no sport in kicking my ass."

"You wanna punch someone. Come on, let's get in the ring." Romanoff said, picking up the spare set of gloves.

"Now you're mocking me."

"No. I'm giving you what you want."

Maggie watched the other woman a moment as she taped up her hands and pulled on her gloves. Romanoff was winding her up, and now she was about to let her go. To what end, Maggie didn't know, but she was ready to get her ass thoroughly kicked if it meant making some of the emotional anguish ebb even slightly.

"Fine." Maggie bit out, climbing into the ring behind her.

"Remember, your opponent in any given circumstance wants to hurt or kill you. Don't hold back because the other person won't."

"So, what I hear is that you want me to hit you as hard as I can."

"I want you to _try_ to hit me as hard as you can, and as a general reminder, you shouldn't play by the rules. "

Maggie rolled her eyes. "Fine." They squared up. This was a setup. She knew for an absolute fact that she was being set up by Romanoff, but she wasn't going to be able to back down now. She'd gotten into the rink, and she was going to leave it unless The Super-Assassin-Avenger wanted her to.

They circled one another, feinting to the left and the right. She was fast and agile, with the strength, flexibility, and speed of a dancer. Maggie tried to keep her focus, front and forward, and plot the best plan of attack. Still, at the back of her mind, there was the seething, boiling, acidic anger.

And then she was on the floor, in a headlock, Romanoff on top of her.

"You're dead," Nat said flatly, releasing her from the headlock and standing back.

"Thanks for that." Mags groaned as she climbed back to her feet.

"Again."

And again, Maggie squared up, and again they circled and feinted and dodged. "You're distracted," Romanoff said, as Maggie took a swing, before throwing her to the ground.

"Oof," she moaned, hoisting herself off the mat.

"Get up. Again."

Over and over, it was the same thing, she and Romanoff would square up, and inevitably Maggie would end up on the mat.

"Okay. What the fuck?" Maggie snapped after being thrown onto the mat for what felt like the millionth time.

"You're distracted, you're not focused, and you're easy to throw on the ground," she shrugged, bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet.

"You're also a super-assassin, spy, Avenger killer woman. If you're going to break me just goddamn break me," She practically snarled, staggering back up.

"You land a punch, and I'll stop throwing you down."

Maggie snorted. "Yeah, right."

"Focus, and you'll be able to land one."

"One?" She echoed.

"One."

"All right." She exhaled, squeezing her eyes shut she tried to push everything out of her mind.

Clear her mind. Don't be distracted. Everything hurt, her whole body hurt, her brain hurt, her eyes hurt, even her soul, it felt, was aching. She wanted to rage and scream at the universe. She wanted to shout from the highest mountains how unfair all of this bullshit was, but that wouldn't change anything. It wouldn't change the fact that Becca was dying, it wouldn't change that Steve hadn't told her, it wouldn't change that she was stuck here until further notice. She could be angry, but she had to let that rage drive her, had to be a cause for focus, not a distraction.

Opening her eyes again, she took a deep breath. "Okay. Let's go."

They squared off, starting the same way they had every other time, dodging and feinting and circling. _Don't play fair._

"You're dis-"

Maggie lunged, grabbing Romanoff by the waist and with her continued momentum, pushed her to the ground. They rolled, struggling momentarily to end up on top. Then, she was pinned, the other woman straddling her waist, both hands pinning her arms down. "Not bad, but you're never going to be able to do that again, you know," She said, blowing a strand of hair out of her face that had fallen from her top knot.

"Well. You said, fight dirty. I figured I'd only get the one shot." Maggie laughed weakly, trying not to focus on the fact that there was a beautiful, dangerous woman straddling her. "Does that count as landing a punch?"

"You didn't technically land a punch," Romanoff said coyly. "But, you did get me off my feet, so I'll let it stand."

"Are you going to let me stand?"

She chuckled, but nodded, removing her gloves from Maggie's arms, and rising to her feet. Shaking off her gloves, she extended her hand to Maggie, hauling her to her feet. "I know you're angry. I know that you're upset, and you have every right to be. But you have to control it, have to harness it to you will, because you can't afford to let it control you. It's the difference between life and death."

Maggie nodded, pulling off her boxing gloves, extended them to her.

"I'd take a nice long shower and try to let your muscles rest. Put your left hand on ice too, it's going to hurt." Romanoff said, collecting the gloves from her. She paused, "and then I'd get to work. You have a lot to do before you go to Argentina." Then she turned to go.

"Romanoff?" Maggie stopped her.

"Yeah?"

"Thanks."

She shook her head. "No. Don't thank me yet. Come back down tomorrow evening, and we'll work some more on what we started today."

"All right. Sounds good. Have a good evening then."

"You too, Ramirez."

And then she was gone.

She sighed, pulling at the tape on her hands, her left hand throbbed. Her whole body was basically going to be one massive bruise in the morning._ Control it, harness it, bend it to your will, because it's the difference between life and death. _

It was hard to imagine anything being the difference between life and death, but stranger things had happened, and hanging out with superheroes absolutely anything was possible. For now, she would use her anger to find Barnes, staying alive was a completely different objective altogether.

* * *

So This is the second of three really difficult chapters. Hang in there, guys. Thank you for sticking with it! Mags really doesn't deserve any of this shit, but she's also REALLY not being very nice to anyone. We're going to get a bit of Nat POV next time! I promise after chapter 23 things lighten up a bit.


	23. We'll Meet Again

Author's Note: Marvel owns what it owns, and I own what I own, let's keep it that way shall we?

T.W.: HUGE HUGE TW for Self Harm, blood, and self-mutilation in this chapter, not graphic in detail, but present. Alcohol, disordered eating, and vomit as well.

Recommended Listening: Sound of Silence by Disturbed, We'll Meet Again by Johnny Cash, Behind Blue Eyes by Limp Bizkit, Fields of Gold by Eva Cassidy, Within by Daft Punk, I Could Live with Dying Tonight by Emma Lee

* * *

Ch 23: We'll Meet Again, Don't Know Where Don't Know When

_Bucky walked through the front door and was immediately immersed in a hug. _

_"Bec? What is? What's the matter?"_

_"Tell me it's not true! Please tell me it's not true!" Becca practically sobbed as she clung to him._

_So she_ _'d found out. When he'd received his draft notice, he'd immediately gone to his mother before he told anyone else, even Steve. They'd resolved that they'd tell the family at a meal together so that they could deal with it as a family. Apparently, Steve had let it slip or mother had told everyone. Either way, he'd have to find a way to calm down his younger sister._

_"_ _Hey, Hey." He said, gently stroking her head, and doing his best to avoid mussing her expertly styled hair._

_"It is true, isn't it!" She looked up at him, her face tear-stained._

_"_ _It is."_

_ She starred in shock, her bottom lip trembling even as she tried her best to put on her brave face. "Bucky-" She began, but he cut her off._

_"_ _Our country needs me Bec. I gotta go," he said. It was the best he could do. "Come on." He continued after a moment. "Let's go down to the drug store. I'll buy you a root beer." _

_"Before dinner?" She stammered._

_"We won't be gone too long. We'll make sure to get back in time to help Rachel and Abby set the table."_

_Becca nodded, wiping her face diligently before collecting her bag and coat._

_They walked in silence for a block before Becca spoke up. "You can't go Bucky. It's not fair."_

_"I've been called up. I can't argue with the U.S. Army."_

_"_ _But you can, I read that if you can prove-"_

_"It's a done deal, Becca." He sighed. He'd tried. Filed every petition, tried every loophole, looked for exemptions or waivers, done everything he could to be considered unfit for service, outside of intentionally failing his physical. He'd tried to prove that he was of greater use to his country here than overseas. "Everyone has to do their part," He added, lamely, when he couldn't think of anything else to say_

_"Oh, yes. Abby, Rachel, and I get to grow Victory Gardens, knit socks, and collect scrap while you go and get shot at."_

_"Bec, if they let the likes of my sisters in the army, the war would be done and over in half the time." He said, doing his best to fight the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Glancing down at her expression, he cleared his throat._

_"It's not fair, why do you have to go."_

_"Someone has to Bec."_

_"But why does it have to be you?"_

_"Doesn't matter, because it is." He wished he had a better answer because then he'd know how to fix this. Funny that, Steve had been trying since Pearl Harbor to enlist and had been rejected repeatedly. Then here he was, the perfect picture of health, three-time welterweight boxing champion, and he was doing everything he could to find a way not to serve. But he couldn't tell her that. He couldn't tell her that he was scared. He was her older brother, and he wasn't a child anymore. These doubts, these fears, they were his to bear, and he would have to bear them alone._

_"I still have training, which will take some time. War is unpredictable. It could be over before I get shipped out."_

_ They arrived at the soda fountain, but now they were dressed differently. She was wearing her favorite pale blue dress. He was wearing his dress uniform. It was his last day stateside._

_"So you're going to the Science EXPO with Bonnie and Connie and Steve tonight?" Becca asked, sitting across from him, drinking her usual root beer._

_"Yeah. But I wanted to take you out one more time before I shipped out."_

_"You promised Steve you'd write."_

_There wasn't a question exactly, but he could tell she was fishing. "I'll send letters to ma and dad as often as I can as well."_

_She nodded satisfied by his answer, taking a long draw of her drink, her eyes were red from crying, although she would never admit it to him, and she blinked to keep more from falling._

_"Hey, Bec." He waited until she looked up at him and met his gaze. "It's going to be okay. I'll be back before you know it."_

_"How can you be so sure?" She asked, a definite tinge of tears on her voice._

_"Because I'm a Barnes, and I'm your brother." He winked with a cocky grin. "Now come on, we need to finish our drinks. Steve's coming over with his camera. He wants to take our picture."_

_"Oh, Steven." She chuckled, rolling her eyes._

_They finished their drinks and walked from the drug store, shoulder to shoulder talking about the local gossip, and all the things Becca was going to have to keep him up to date on while he was away._

_As they reached the last block before their parent_ _'s place, she charged ahead, waving and calling to get Steve's attention. He wanted to call her back so that he could see her face clearly one last time, but she was already out of earshot and quickly getting further and further away._

He blinked, he'd been daydreaming if that was possible. It was strange really, he hadn't thought about that last day, those final moments before leaving Brooklyn and now for whatever reason, those memories had been the most present over the past few days.

Perhaps it was because his birthday had come and gone, maybe it was because he was remembering more. Whatever the case, he'd been thinking about those last precious moments before he'd become something other than just James Barnes, when he'd belonged to something other than himself and his family. Perhaps, he'd been thinking more about Becca because she was all that was left of his family, beyond Steve Rogers, and now that he could actually remember anything before 1945, it actually meant something to him.

He'd checked on her shortly after his trip to the Smithsonian on his family, on Bucky Barnes's family to find that only Rebecca Barnes-Proctor, Barnes's youngest sister was still alive. He hadn't dug any further. He hadn't had the time or resources. It had occurred to him that he could seek her out and that she'd be able to give him answers. He'd even made it as far as Brooklyn before the withdrawal symptoms had kicked in, and he'd started north. It would've only ended in disaster. Hydra would probably have ambushed him, or Steve would've caught up with him.

For better or worse, it hadn't worked out.

Still, he wondered what kind of person Becca had grown up to be. What kind of woman had she become, and how the Barnes family had moved on after he'd disappeared.

He'd promised to write, and he had for a little while up until his first battle. After that, he hadn't been able to find the words, hadn't been able to summon the courage to tell them what was really going on, what war was actually like outside of the newsreels. So he'd lied, for a bit, fabricated stories and good things to tell his family back home, until he hadn't had the energy to do even that. He wasn't entirely convinced that all of them, or any of them for that matter, had made it back to his folks. He remembered during his time with the howling commandos, Steve had drawn pictures of them and sent them home with the letters. He wondered what happened to those too.

He rose to his feet, pulling on his gloves and jacket. There was no harm in checking up, doing some research. She was, after all, family. It would be informative to know what his sister had done with herself since 1945 and find out what she was up to now.

He walked out the door and down the street to the library. Logging in to one of the guest computers, he typed in Rebecca Barnes Proctor, Brooklyn, NY, USA, and hit enter. His stomach dropped when he saw the top hit.

An obituary.

He swallowed hard and clicked on the link. There she was, Rebecca Barnes-Proctor. He printed the article without reading it. He couldn't do that here. Clearing the browser history and collecting his copy, he charged out into the streets and rushed back to the safe house. Locking the door, he sat down on the floor, spreading the printed sheets out in front of him.

She was gone. At 86 years old, cancer, surrounded by her five children James Martinez-Proctor, Mary, Jenny, Elizabeth, and Stephanie Proctor. Proceed in death by her first husband Gabriel Martinez, her second husband Roger Proctor, her sisters Abigail and Rachel Barnes, and parents Winifred and George Barnes. 'She will be remembered as not just a wife, mother, and grandmother but as an activist.' It then went on to list her many accomplishments. She'd gone to college, marched with the anti-war movement in the 60s, women's rights, environmental activism, gay rights. She'd also fostered or adopted over fifty kids.

Setting the paper down, shock melted away, and he could feel grief start to sink in as he sniffled, wiping his nose with his jacket sleeve. While he'd made the world a darker, more brutal place, she'd tried to make it better, tried to make a world filled with love and peace and justice for all.

His chest constricted at the thought, and he looked back down at the two photographs: one when she'd been young, her graduation photo from college. He knew that face, that smile. "Oh, Bec." He reached out to touch the grainy print, his voice shaking. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

He turned to the other photograph. It was a group shot, more recent. They were all wearing 1940s attire, the women in either head wraps or victory rolls, the men in suspenders. It looked like the 4th of July from what he could tell from the spread. The faces were all smiling and bright. Becca sat in the center, surrounded by the massive family she'd accumulated over the years. In one hand, Becca held something clutched to her chest, while the other hand was holding her son's hand, James. He had a nephew, and nieces, and grand nieces and nephews, and even great-grand nieces and nephews. Becca had named her only son after him.

Did they know about him? About the monster lurking in their family lineage, the skeleton from their not too distant past? They hadn't mentioned him alive or dead in the obituary. Did Becca know? Had Steve told her what he'd seen her brother become?

_I'll be back before you know it._ That's what he'd said, that's what he'd told her. Only he hadn't. He could've, he'd had the choice, he could've gone to see her, gone to explain, gone to apologize. He could've made it back to her, had he tried harder, had he not been afraid, had he not been a coward.

Would she have understood? Would she have forgiven him? Would she have embraced him as her brother? Him? The broken, horrible creature that Hydra had created out of what James Barnes had once been? Or would she have turned away? Repulsed and mortified by the thing he'd become.

He didn't know, and now he would never know.

He'd let his sister die. He'd let his sister die without saying goodbye, without saying he was sorry, without making amends for all that he had done and all that he had become.

He blinked at the tears that were streaming down his face, stinging his cheeks. He was Bucky Barnes, the man who'd fallen from the train, but he was something else now too. A monster, a zombie, an undead thing who couldn't die and who destroyed everything he touched. Hydra had kept him alive, and kept him away from his home, his family, his memories, his soul. One by one, his family had died, not knowing his fate, not knowing what had _really _happened to him, what he had become. Then he'd been given a chance, an opportunity to atone, and he'd turned away, too frightened, too scared, too cowardly to face the judgment of the one person who could grant clemency for the crimes he'd committed against them.

A frantic sort of terror overcame him, coupled with a compulsion he couldn't fight. He had to fix it, had to undo what Hydra had done to him. He ripped off his gloves, his right hand going to his left shoulder, his fingernails dragging over the skin, digging into the flesh over the metal plate holding the prosthesis in his chest. His skin was hardened by scar tissue but wasn't half so dense as the metal he could feel just underneath.

_I have to get it out. I have to get it out. _He would've screamed as he dug and clawed at Hydra's handiwork, but every breath he took felt like agony, and any further exertion would've been too much. His mind bent around the singular task, choked by pain and tears, the air felt hot and thick in his lungs, and there was a high pitched buzz in his ears. Yet, he continued, he had to get it out, he had no choice, he had to undo what Hydra had done to him, had to change what he had become.

He dug and clawed, until he could feel the flesh tear away, blood slick and wet on his fingertips, and then like some switch had been flipped, he could feel the pressure in his skull ease, and the itching sensation just under his skin ceased. The pain was near euphoric as he collapsed into himself and onto the floor as his grief, and his pain gave way to exhaustion.

* * *

Rebecca Proctor was dead. Steve had sent Natasha a text. She wasn't sure what exactly she was supposed to do with that information, but she knew it meant that he wanted her to go and check on Maggie Ramirez.

Steve and Ramirez weren't on speaking terms at the moment. Ramirez was pissed that Steve had kept Rebecca Proctor's illness and prognosis from her, and Steve was busy running missions and trying to keep himself together. This meant that if Steve had sent Nat a text message to announce the death of Rebecca Proctor, then it was likely that Steve had sent Ramirez a similar one. It wasn't a good move on Steve's part, but he was away on a mission, and a text was better than nothing. Well, it was until it wasn't.

_Why am I concerned? _That was her first thought. It wasn't in her nature to be overly invested in people. She'd lived most of her life as an assassin, spy, and saboteur; circumstances, and people came and went, and in order to survive, she'd been able to stay above most of it. Then the Avengers had been formed, and then SHIELD had fallen, and ghosts from her past had started clawing their way out of the red in her ledger and back into her life.

Things had changed. They had to. Different tactics had to be developed and adopted to adjust to the new paradigm, a paradigm where she didn't have to do it alone, and in fact, couldn't do it alone.

That was how and why Ramirez had come into her life.

Natasha had been skeptical about Ramirez at first. That was just how she was about people in general, but specifically skeptical about her joining Rogers and Wilson on their mission to track down and bring in Barnes. She'd personally spent considerable time, energy, and resources attempting to track down the Winter Soldier, to little avail. She was intimately familiar with the particular dangers associated with going head to head with the Winter Soldier and Hydra. It was something that could eat you alive if you weren't careful. Was Steve aware of those dangers? Probably? But was Ramirez? No. Probably not. That was why Natasha had been watching Ramirez, keeping her under surveillance. She justified it as protection, after all, you don't just walk away if Hydra wants you dead, and Hydra had several reasons to want Magdalene Ramirez dead.

At first, it had appeared Ramirez would be only handling more surface-level stuff. Up until Steve had started letting her handle and access everything Natasha was giving him. Then, he'd complicated matters further by introducing Ramirez to Barnes's only surviving sibling, Rebecca Barnes-Proctor. Natasha could understand why he'd done it. Steve had simply found someone more willing and able to talk about his friend, whom, up until April of 2014, had widely been believed to be dead. But that was dangerous. It had painted an even bigger target on Ramirez and Rebecca Proctor's back, something that Rogers, Ramirez, and Proctor had all seemed blissfully unaware.

That is, up until Hydra had nearly grabbed Ramirez back in August. Natasha had prevented Ramirez from being snatched off the street by Hydra, and it was then that she had witnessed Ramirez's mettle. The woman had been frightened, but stubborn, pushing back against what Steve had told her, pushing back against the limitations that had been put on her—seeking the truth for a purpose, seeking truth so that eventually she could walk away. Natasha could respect and admire that, and so she'd agreed to help Ramirez find out the information she was looking for, help her cover her tracks, and provide her with a clear point of no return. Then slowly, they'd become colleagues, and Natasha would even venture friends of a sort.

Now, well, Nat was invested in Magdalene Ramirez. She was, much to her surprise, rooting for her, rooting for her to be able to leave after all of this was over. Natasha hoped that Ramirez could go back to helping people in her way. Not everyone could be an Avenger, nor should everyone want to be. Ramirez was born to help people or rather born to be around and amongst people. She had a light about her. It was an almost magnetic force drawing people to her light and warmth and _humanity_. She could see it in the way she made Steve and Sam laugh, the way she tried to put on a brave face for all those around her. Down to the simple fact that she'd gone from running an equine therapy ranch for disabled Veterans to trying to hunt down one of the most lethal people alive without so much as batting an eye. It was one thing Natasha admired about Ramirez. She was so very, very connected to her humanity and the humanity of others around her. She wasn't naive, by any stretch of the imagination, but she was in touch with the basic, fundamental people-ness about people. Natasha was sure it was one of the reasons why she and Rebecca Proctor had gotten along as they had. They were both fundamentally and connected to the humanity of others. Nat couldn't help but feel a little envious of that ability. She'd had most of her humanity ripped away and replaced with the effective weaponry required to survive the red room. It was also one of the reasons why Natasha was concerned about how Ramirez was taking Becca's death.

When Ramirez had gotten the news that Becca was dying, she had been beside herself with grief and anger. Understandable. Natasha had told her to harness that to bringing in Barnes. It was a shallow, vain sort of hope that perhaps they could find him and bring him to Becca before she passed. But to Nat's credit, it had worked. For the last four days, they'd been sparring in the morning, working on translation and decryption on some of the documents Natasha had dug up for her, and then in the evenings cardio, weight lifting and practice down in the shooting gallery. She'd seemed focused and calm, and at the very least starting to get a grip on what was going on. After all, you couldn't fight if you couldn't focus.

Then, since Nat had gotten the text from Steve this morning, she hadn't heard anything out of Ramirez aside from a single text that read: "I'll be in the apartment. We'll try for tomorrow." Which on instinct Natasha knew wasn't a good sign.

Walking down to Ramirez's apartment, Natasha stopped outside, hesitating.

_Why are you concerned?_

Because Ramirez was alone and shouldn't be, Natasha reasoned. Because Ramirez had taken on this shitty mission so she could go home, but also so she could reunite families, reunite lovers. Because it was the right thing to do, she knew, above all.

Raising her hand to knock, she heard the handle on the other side move. Stepping back, Ramirez appeared in the doorway dressed in her workout clothes and gym shoes.

"Hi, Naaaatttt." She managed a half-cocked smiled as she stumbled through the doorway, tripping over her own feet.

Nat caught her by the elbow before she could fall entirely to the floor. "Going somewhere?"

"IwannaIwannapunchsomething." She explained, her words running together.

Ah. So she'd been drinking. Not unsurprising, all things considered, but the urge to go and punch something while drunk, not a good idea. "Not like that you aren't," Natasha said gently, guiding her back into the apartment before Ramirez could work up a good protest.

"What? Steve send you to check up on me?" She slurred, anger creasing her expression in dramatic lines.

"He sent me a text about Becca, I had a feeling you'd be upset and came to check up on you," Natasha replied, glancing around. The television was on, which was a first for Ramirez, a telenovela was playing. There were three empty pint-sized cartons of ice cream, an empty extra-large pizza box, and three empty bottles of wine strewn over the coffee table. It hadn't been like this yesterday when they'd all been here for a briefing, which meant this had transpired in the six or so hours since Steve had texted them.

"Awww. So the assassin who doesn't care actually_ does_ care." She laughed, a harsh, brittle, tinny little laugh as jerked her arm away from Natasha's grip. Ramirez turned to face her, and then the smile faded, a momentary look of panic and horror crossed her expression as she went sheet white before throwing up all over Natasha.

"You okay?" She asked Ramirez, who was double over, hands on her knees still retching.

"I—am—so—so—sorry." Ramirez gasped.

"I'd say it serves you right for being a smart ass, but I'm the one covered in vomit." Nat chuckled gently, retaking her elbow. "Come on. Let's get you to the bathroom."

"I'm fine. I'm fin-" She didn't finish as she staggered to the kitchen sink and vomited again.

"Let me get you some water." Natasha said, pausing, "First, I'm raiding your closet and throwing these in the wash." She said, motioning to her vomit-covered clothes.

Ramirez gave the thumbs up before lowering her head back in the sink.

Natasha could hear the sounds of retching from the bedroom as she pulled off her soiled garments, and selected a pair of leggings, and a soft flannel button-down. Changing, she glanced around the small room. There were a few photographs around her and Sam and Riley, her and Riley, younger photos of her with who Natasha assumed was her brother. There was the Virgin of Guadalupe Statue sitting by the bedside, draped with a rosary and a dog tag. Everything else in the room was devoid of personal effects, aside from the clothing. Ramirez really had lost everything in the fire, and now she'd lost again.

Tossing the clothes in the washing machine, she walked back out to the kitchen to find the water running and Ramirez drinking directly from the tap, swishing the water and spitting to get the taste out of her mouth. "Feeling any better?"

Ramirez's eyes darted up, shooting her a 'look' before returning her focus to the sink. Eventually, she turned off the water and sat up. "I am sorry I vomited on you."

"I've had worse. Let's get you somewhere for you to lie down." Natasha said, slowly approaching her.

She flinched as Natasha reached for her, recoiling. "I'm fine. Romanoff. Just a bit too much to drink," She mumbled, a slight slur in her words as she started toward the couch.

Nat grabbed a two two-liter bottles of water from the fridge and followed behind her, scooping up Ramirez's phones and headphones, set them on the coffee table. "Here, try to drink some water. It'll help you feel better." She extended one of the bottles to Ramirez.

"You don't have to babysit me."

"The way I remember it, you threw up on me, and now I'm waiting for my clothes to finish washing and drying," Nat answered. Pausing, she looked over at Ramirez who was sipping water slowly from the bottle staring blankly at the T.V. Then she turned to the telenovela. "You seen this one before?" Nat inquired hesitantly.

"My mother and my Abuela used to watch them. They'd be on when I'd come home from school when I was little." She said absently. "They'd always have mini burritos waiting for my brother and me after school snacks before we sat down to do homework. It was one of the many reasons I learned and retained Spanish. I wanted to know what it was the grownups were watching, and be able to participate." She shook her head, blinking back tears.

"You must miss them quite a bit," Natasha replied.

"It just reminds me of better times, simpler times." Ramirez shook her head. "You know it's funny, when someone died in my family, growing up I mean, their photograph would go up on the family ofrenda almost as soon as my Abuela found out. When that first October after their passing came around, there'd be a huge ordeal about selecting or changing the photograph. It was something that I continued with, growing up and moving out, and creating an ofrenda of my own." She swallowed hard. "I don't even _have _a photograph of Becca. Not that I'm sure she or Barnes would want her photograph on my Ofrenda. I'm not sure. I'm not sure what the Jewish faith has to say about being on a Catholic shrine." Maggie swiped at the tears that had started streaming down her face.

"I'm sure she wouldn't mind, and I'm sure Barnes wouldn't mind either," Nat said. "I think they'd be touched and honored that you think enough of Becca to put her on your ofrenda."

Ramirez exhaled with a strangled sigh. "I...I...just feel like I failed her. Like I failed them both."

"You didn't fail them." _There wasn't any way you were going to find him in time._ She would've added, but it wouldn't have had the desired effect, and Ramirez was already beating herself up over something she had little to no control over.

Natasha could feel the pain, the anger, the frustration, and the outright grief coming off of Ramirez in waves. She could feel within herself a sort of sadness, a loss that she couldn't quite put a name to. She knew how much Becca meant to Ramirez, but she also knew how important Becca had been to James. He hadn't remembered her, not by name, but he would sometimes talk about how he had a feeling he had family out there and that perhaps he might get to see them someday.

Regret. That was perhaps the word she was looking for. Regret that she'd never been able to find the time to tell Becca what James had meant to her, and what James had remembered, even in the darkest of days. Regret that she'd never been able to become as close as Ramirez had gotten with Becca, never partaken in the bond of friendship and family that Ramirez had created in the few short months since she'd arrived. But that hadn't been her place, Natasha had decided. Becca didn't need to know that Natasha had known her brother as the Winter Soldier. Didn't need to know what he had done, the atrocities they had committed together in the name of Hydra. No one needed to know. It was one of the many reasons that she hadn't told Steve how and why she knew where to dig up files on the Winter Soldier, and since Steve had never point blanked asked, she didn't necessarily feel inclined to explain.

Yet, sitting beside Ramirez, as she grieved, Natasha could feel a grief of her own, for all that she had lost, and for all that might be lost if they could never find James.

Natasha glanced over at Ramirez, who was dozing off, her eyes puffy and red, her gaze unfocused her right hand was wrapped around the water bottle, her left fiddling with the chain she wore around her neck, strung with two golden bands.

"We have what we have when we have it," Nat said, slowly putting her hand Ramirez's shoulder. "It's not enough, it's never enough, but it's all we have."

Putting her hand on Natasha's, Ramirez nodded wordlessly.

Nothing else needed to be said, nothing else could be said.

She wanted Ramirez to succeed, wanted Ramirez to get to be able to go home, be able to continue her work, but most importantly, Natasha wanted Ramirez to survive all of it. That was what she had been taught, survival, and so that's what she'd help Ramirez to do, whatever that meant, whatever that entailed, whatever Ramirez might require. It was the least Natasha could do, considering all that Ramirez had lost in a battle where she only knew the half of it, and that from what Natasha could see had only just begun.

* * *

You all still with me? Everyone take a deep breath. This is the last chapter like this. I'm so sorry (throw rotten fruit I deserve it).

I look forward to hearing what you think. I hope everyone is doing well and is safe with all of the COVID-19 business. I know I'm trapped inside, so you might get updates more frequently. Good luck! Stay Safe and until next time Happy Reading!


	24. A Calm Before the Storm

Author's Note: Marvel owns what it owns, and I own what I own, let's keep it that way shall we? Don't Sue me!

Recommended Listening: Pretty Woman by Roy Orbison, Ain't Nobody's Business if I Do by Billie Holliday, Alone Together by Ray Anthony, Leaving on a Jet Plane by John Denver

* * *

Ch 24: A Calm Before the Storm

It had been almost a month since Becca had passed away. While Maggie wasn't sure about everyone else, but for her, everything was going at a strange fast-slow pace. Things were happening at an accelerated rate, while nothing was happening at all. Steve hadn't attended Becca's funeral. He'd argued his presence would've turned the entire thing into a media circus, which felt wholly and utterly unfair to both him and the family. Maggie, for her part, had decided to let the family grieve and mourn together without her interference. She'd only known Becca a few months. It didn't seem right to infringe on the family's period of grieving.

She and Steve hadn't spoken.

Mostly, they'd been busy, and it hadn't been exactly conducive to them talking out their feelings, and working through what had transpired. Maggie's anger had melted away into grief, and now, over a month later, a feeling a numb. Maggie hadn't left the tower. Unfortunately, they'd had to delay their trip to Argentina. It had been for the best, as it had given Maggie a chance to prepare better, plot out their route, where they were going to stay, and brush up on her Spanish.

The delay had also allowed her and Romanoff additional time to work through the more technical and complicated bits of Russian translation. They had started getting into medical documents, which came with ethical questions all of their own. At what point did the search for the Winter Soldier become too personal? When did she know much? And what was she supposed to do with the information she found. Those were questions to be answered another day, for now, she just put everything in her journals, before filing or destroying the documents depending.

While she and Steve hadn't spoken, she hadn't seen much of Sam either. Sam had been flying all over the world chasing down and following up on leads that didn't involve hiking into remote jungles, while Steve, Nat, and the rest of the Avengers had been kicking down Hydra's front door and busting up cells all over the world. They had allegedly "beaten" Hydra, mopping up the last of their bases in Sokovia, and now Stark was throwing a party in celebration. It was a rare moment for the Avengers and afflicted gang to all be together before she and Sam would pack up and head for the airport for their flight to Argentina.

For her part, Maggie didn't feel much like celebrating. It didn't exactly feel like Hydra had been "beaten" when she still wasn't able to go home, and the thought of getting dressed up and paraded around one of Stark's goddamn parties didn't fill her with the warm fuzzies.

So Maggie had parked herself on the couch, the TV on, trying to decide if she wanted to get ready for their flight now or if she wanted to take a nap. She was pulled from her in-depth internal debate on the pros and cons of both options by a knock at the door.

"Huh." She sighed, sitting up on her elbows, raising herself up just high enough to see over the back of the couch. There were only so many people who'd be at her door at this time of night, while there was a Stark party happening, and she wasn't sure if she wanted to deal with any of them.

There was another, louder, knock, and a pause before Romanoff's voice rang through the door, "Ramirez, are you going to let me in, or am I going to have to force the lock?"

"No need for that, Romanoff. It's unlocked." She called.

"How many times have I told you not to keep your door unlocked." Romanoff sighed as she emerged through the front door, accompanied by the click of high heels.

"I'm still waiting for that Hydra assassin to come and snatch me up in my sleep if I'm being honest," Maggie shrugged, watching her approach. Romanoff had just come from the party or was getting ready to go up, and was wearing a beautiful a-line black dress with a contrasting white collar and sleeves and carrying a garment bag and a pair of heels.

"All packed up for Argentina?" She asked.

"More or less."

"Good. Put these on." Romanoff tossed first the garment bag and then the heels on top of her recumbent form.

"Hey. Hey. You could put an eye out with those things." Maggie protested, scrabbling up into a sitting position, her hands up defensively to protect her face.

"I've done more with less. Come on, get changed, or haven't you heard there's a party going on."

"I heard. And I thought I told Sam that I wasn't going."

"I heard you tell Sam and Steve at the briefing that you'd think about it. And I know you're just doing this to avoid talking to Steve in a casual setting."

"I have a long few days ahead of me. Excuse me for not wanting to be out among the masses."

"When was the last time you saw another living person outside of our immediate cell of operatives."

"I ran into Dr. Banner the other day while I was up in the main kitchen, making tea," Maggie replied quickly. "And I saw Barton this morning down in the shooting gallery."

Romanoff raised an eyebrow, but said nothing, pulling her phone from an inner pocket of her dress.

"What are you doing?" Maggie asked suspiciously.

"Texting Sam," Romanoff replied.

Maggie snorted, pushing the hair out of her from her face. "He's not the boss of me."

"No. Just letting him know that since you've failed to listen to reason, we might have to haul you bodily out of the apartment."

"What? Is Steve your enforcer now? Let me know how that goes for you."

"Our thought was Thor wouldn't have any qualms about hauling you over his shoulder to engage in the merriment." She paused, her thumb hovering over the send key.

Maggie sat perfectly still, trying to read Romanoff's expression, every flicker, every twitch, and there was nothing, nada, zilch, zero. Was she bluffing? How could she tell? Did Maggie really wanna risk that? "Okay, okay, fine!" Maggie rushed at the slightest inclination of a twitch of Romanoff's thumb.

A smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth, and she slipped the phone back into the concealed pocket. "Everything should fit," She commented as Maggie unzipped the hanging bag.

"Not sure if I should be flattered or horrified. Does the hanging bag double as a body bag?" Maggie commented, wryly.

"In my experience, every bag can be a bodybag if you try hard enough."

Maggie stopped and looked up, again searching for some clue. "I'd ask if you're kidding, but I really don't want to know." She shook her head, turning her attention to her outfit for the evening.

She had picked out a silky blue jumpsuit, a v-neck with a conservative back allowing for a bra to be worn, but could also be considered revealing without actually exposing. The shoes were a pair of sensible black t-strap heels. "I also have accessories."

"Cool." Maggie managed. She wasn't getting out of this. Sam and apparently Romanoff were both in a mood, and so at the risk of being hauled bodily from the apartment by any number of superheroes, she'd deal. "Well. If we're going to "Pretty Woman" this, we should get going." She sighed, resigned to her fate, rose to her feet, and started back toward the bedroom, hanging bag and shoes in hand.

"You looking forward to Argentina?" she asked, following behind.

"Cautiously optimistic, but simultaneously very very wary about the whole thing. I don't think hiking through the jungle looking for a former Hydra Nazi science research lab is exactly going to be a bundle of laughs, but it'll be a nice change of scenery."

"That's a good place to be with anything like this," Natasha answered, graciously turning around as Maggie stripped off her baggy t-shirt and sweat pants.

Fortunately, she'd just showered and washed her hair, and the outfit didn't require special undergarments. Slipping on the jumpsuit, Maggie found it fit perfectly, fitting just above her ankles, which worked out since she hadn't shaved anything above her ankles in months. Likewise, the mini sleeves meant her underarms weren't exposed, sparing everyone from her unshaved pits. "Okay. I'm dressed you can turn around."

"Cute," Natasha said. "Accessories are in the hanging bag.

"Thanks," Maggie said flatly, retrieving the hanging bag and fishing through the zipper pockets

"I can help you with your hair and makeup too."

Maggie stopped and looked over at Natasha. Opening and closing her mouth, Maggie sighed before continuing. "You're being awfully nice."

"You still sound surprised."

"Do I? I mean. I suppose I'm wondering what the catch is."

"Since I'm dragging you out of your fortress of solitude to socialize with people you may or may not get along with. I figured I'd make this as painless as possible."

"I'm more of a pull the bandaid off quick type of gal,' and anyway, you don't have to buy my friendship."

"Okay. That makes sense." Romanoff nodded.

Maggie starred. Had she just hurt Natasha Romanoff's feelings? Romanoff had been nothing but nice and now? Maggie was being an asshole, pushing her away, just like she pushed everyone else. "It's not that I don't appreciate it." She rushed, "I just don't want you to feel obligated."

Romanoff nodded again before she spoke, "I don't have many friends who are women. In my previous line of work...well, it didn't work out well for anyone who was. Now- now that I'm free of that, I enjoy being able to share things with my women colleagues and friends that I can't with my teammates or the men in my life." She cracked a small, almost fragile smile. "It's not an obligation to be your friend."

There was tremendous sadness and exhaustion to Romanoff's words, and Maggie wanted to reach out, and touch Natasha on the shoulder, find a way to comfort the other woman. Instead, she just returned the smile and extended the necklace, and lipstick toward her, "I'm going to need help with the clasp on the necklace, and I haven't applied lipstick myself in literal years. I'd be tremendously thankful for your help."

"I can do that, and help you with your hair. You're not leaving it like that." Natasha replied.

"I appreciate it."

"Now, let's get you set up in front of the mirror."

Maggie obliged wordlessly, watching as Natasha first clasped the necklace before removing the hair tie holding the messy bun Maggie had put her hair in. She worked the long dark curls into a single french braid before adding in ornamental bobby-pins that Sam had bought her for Christmas.

For her part, Maggie hadn't done her hair up in a while. She _could_ do her hair up, it was just a pain in the ass, and often not worth the time and effort. So watching her hair transform under Natasha's deft hands felt magical. Quickly and proficiently braiding her hair, Natasha then moved to makeup, finishing with the lipstick before backing away so Maggie could see her reflection.

"Well, there's absolutely no way I can get out of going, now." She commented, glancing up at Natasha with a smirk.

"Come on. It won't be so bad." Natasha said, offering Maggie her arm.

Maggie took it, also collecting her keys and cards, slipping them into the deep pockets of her jumpsuit, as they walked from the apartment and to the elevator.

The party was in full swing when they stepped off the elevator, and Maggie could feel her heart race. She hadn't been near this many people all at once in a very very long time, and her eyes scanned the large room and plotted out the best escape route. Fortunately, Stark had expressly prohibited pop-top beverages, and everyone was drinking out of bottles, but she tensed at the sound of a popping champagne cork. "Hey, you're alright." Nat murmured gently into her ear.

Maggie nodded mutely, allowing Natasha to guide her over to the bar where Sam was waiting with a glass and a shot glass. "Gin and Tonic, and a double shot of Cuervo with a lime." Sam commented, sliding the G n' T over to Natasha and the Cuervo with a lime wedge toward Maggie as she climbed up on the barstool.

"You know me so well." She drawled, before licking her hand and pouring salt on the moist patch of skin.

"Thanks for the drink, Sam," Nat said, grabbing the glass off the counter. "I'll be back in a few, have some people I need to chat with." She turned to Maggie, "You look gorgeous, by the way. That color blue with that color red suits you."

"Th-Thanks." Maggie stammered as Romanoff walked away.

Sam was starring, glancing between the retreating form of Romanoff and her in disbelief. "What is going on between you two?"

"You know, we sit around and paint one another's nails, gossip, have pillow fights in our lingerie. The usual girl stuff." Maggie replied sarcastically before throwing back the shot of Cuervo and sucking on the line. Amazingly the lipstick remained intact.

"Not what I meant," Sam said.

"Oh, are you asking if I've found a superhero squeeze of my own?" Maggie raised an eyebrow.

"No." Sam shook his head, "And actually, now that you've said that, I _really_ don't want to know."

Maggie snorted, shaking her head. "You're funny, Sam." She paused, trying to formulate the next sentence carefully. "We're friends. She's looking out for me. It's nice. I don't know what I have to offer in a friendship or any kind of relationship at the moment. Though I will admit, it is nice to have her around." Maggie concluded, glancing over at Sam.

She wasn't about to tell him they'd been decoding top secret Hydra Files, or that Romanoff was teaching her to fight and drive and shoot. She wasn't going to tell Sam any of that, not right now at the very least. It was hypocritical, she realized, to withhold information from Sam, particularly after the fuss she'd made with Steve. However, Maggie reasoned that this had nothing to do with Sam, and so, therefore, it wasn't the same thing at all.

Sam nodded, skeptically, but took a sip of his drink.

"Oh. I like this song." She commented. She didn't actually recognize the song, but it was enough of a comment to steer the conversation away from her and into safer territory.

"Let's dance," Sam said, throwing back the rest of his drink, stepped down from the barstool, and extended his hand to her.

"You hate dancing. And you're terrible at it."

"But you don't, and I know you'll keep me from stepping on your toes," Sam said. "Come on. For old time's sake if nothing else."

Maggie rolled her eyes but nodded in acquiescence as she hopped down from the barstool and took Sam's hand, watching the faces that passed. She had been here almost a year and recognized virtually no one. Sure, she'd run into some people in the hallways, but otherwise, her apartment was a self-contained fortress of solitude where she reigned as the one true supreme monarch.

"What are you thinking about?" Sam asked as they started dancing. The song was slow, and so they moved with ease around the dance floor.

"Oh. My fortress of solitude." She answered, honestly.

"Sounds like fun. What are you thinking of buying some property in Antarctica? I'm sure Stark could help you out there."

"Well, we are going to be in Argentina. It wouldn't be too far of a jaunt if we wanted to make a runner to scout out prime "freeze my ass off" real estate."

Sam chuckled. "Yeah, I never could figure out why Superman decided to set up shop in the frozen middle of nowhere."

"I couldn't either, but I figure it's because we're two dumbass kids from the south," She smiled. It was nice to hear Sam chuckle. Two dumbass kids from the south, she couldn't help but chuckle at that as well. She'd lived most of her life in Texas, up until the time she met and fell in love with Riley. Sam had been born and partially raised in New Orleans before his family had moved to Virginia. Yet they'd both been willing to move to the cold middle of nowhere upstate New York for Riley.

"So what do you think? Fortress of solitude somewhere warm? We thinkin' the Bahamas?" Sam asked, pulling her from her thoughts

"Somewhere warm, but not on the coast. Too many tourists."

"So what? Africa? Asia?"

"I've never been to either, so I wouldn't mind the opportunity if given a chance." She said.

"It sounds nice."

"It does," Maggie agreed.

"I'm glad you came. It's nice to see you out of the apartment, amongst people." Sam commented after a moment. "And you do look amazing, by the way. Romanoff does know how to pick out clothes."

"She certainly has an eye for details," Maggie said distantly, as she scanned the dance floor.

They passed the rest of the song in silence, both of them in a time and place far away. It had been forever since she'd danced, and Sam, while boasting two left feet, was an outstanding leader and did his best not to step on toes, which he managed with about 80% success.

"Come on." Sam said as the song ended, "let's get you back to the bar."

And then, Maggie's stomach dropped. Romanoff's disappearance as soon as she'd made it to the party, and Sam's distraction of dancing despite the well-known fact that he _hated_ dancing. "Why do I feel like this is a setup?" Maggie asked, glancing up at him as he walked her back toward the bar, with a gentle but firm hand.

Sam didn't have a chance to answer as the bar came into view, and there standing at the counter was Steve and Natasha, chatting amiably. "Because it is a setup." She practically moaned.

"You two are going to have to kiss and make up sooner or later. Besides, it's a party." Sam said.

"We're not fighting. This isn't a fight. We're keeping our work relationship professional. And I have no idea what you mean by 'beside it's a party,' Samuel Wilson," She hissed.

"Ramirez." Steve nodded politely, his expression going grave at their approach.

"Hey Steve," She sighed, glancing up at him as she slid onto a barstool beside him.

"Can I get you something to drink?" He asked uncertainly.

Maggie glanced at Romanoff and Sam sourly as they moved further down the bar, just out of earshot, but not entirely out of range. "Do they _really _think we're going to fight each other here?" She asked blandly.

"Well. I don't think we've inspired much confidence recently for them to leave us alone entirely."

"I think that's fair." She paused. "In that case, I'll have a rum and coke with a slice of lime."

Steve ordered, and they sat in silence a moment while Maggie waited for her drink.

It wasn't that she didn't want to talk to Steve. It was that they collectively didn't have the time to unpack all of the shit necessary to deal with what had happened. Furthermore, she didn't really wanna trouble him with her baggage when he had his own shit to unpack and deal with at the moment.

"You've been busy," Maggie commented as her drink arrived.

"Mopping up the last of Hydra and tracking down Loki's scepter? Honestly? I'd rather be going to Argentina." Steve said with a weary sigh.

_Focused on Bucky. _She couldn't help but notice that he hadn't mentioned that, but it was just under the surface, for anyone who was listening and knew what to listen for. "Sam and I were talking about finding some real estate in Antarctica for a Fortress of Solitude. Wanna go halvesies?" Maggie said.

Steve looked at her, browned furrowed.

"Superman? Fortress of solitude? Somewhere to get away to think. Though I think Superman's was in the Arctic."

"Oh. Yeah. Right. I appreciate the offer, but I think I've had more than my fair share of the cold."

"I agree. Somewhere warm, Asia or Africa is what I told Sam."

"Sounds good."

"I'll keep you posted if we find anything." Maggie chuckled, taking a sip of her drink.

There was a long pause, and Maggie could feel Steve intake a long breath as he prepared to say his piece.

"James Martinez-Proctor reached out to me a few days ago, had a couple of things he wanted to give me, and wanted me to give you this." He said, removing a folded envelope from his pant's pocket, set it on the bar next to her right elbow. "He said that Becca wanted you to have it, but they didn't have enough time to get it to you before she passed."

Maggie looked down. The envelope had been heavily handled. She could see that from all the folds and lines creasing the surface. There was also a very distinctive lump in the paper, indicating that there was something, aside from a letter, nestled inside. What could be in it, she didn't know, but she could feel a lump form in her throat. Becca and Becca's family had thought enough of her to send her something.

"I wanted to deliver it to you personally. So you knew I wasn't avoiding you."

So he was learning. "Thank you, Steve," She said as she took the envelope off the bar top and slid it in her pocket. "And please send Mr. Martinez-Proctor my regards, and thanks as well."

"Of course." Steve nodded.

Maggie paused, thinking of Becca's words. _You don't have to look after him, but remind him there is a life after all of this Captain America bullshit. _She wasn't ready, not yet. She could barely look the man in the face right now. But Becca's words still burned like a flame, asking her to protect Steve from himself.

"Are you enjoying the party?" Maggie asked uncertainly.

"Yeah. It's nice seeing everyone. Are you?"

"Ummm." She glanced around. "Yeah? Not a huge fan of crowds. But I guess it's nice being out of the apartment and away from work for a little bit."

"If you don't mind. I actually have some people I'd like you to meet." He said slowly.

"Who?" Maggie asked warily.

"Some friends of mine," Steve said as he rose from his seat.

"Friends," she echoed flatly.

"Some veterans." Steve amended, extending a hand to help her down from the barstool.

She glanced between him and his hand skeptically.

"I know it would mean a lot to them," Steve said innocently, his big blue eyes round and sincere.

_That bastard._ There was a reason that people would follow him into the jaws of hell and back again, and now she'd just experienced it first hand.

"All right. But you know Sam, and I are going to have to get out of here soon. We do have a mission to take care of still." She relented, letting Steve help her down.

"You have about two hours until you have to leave," Steve said, as he led through the party. "I am aware of your itinerary."

Maggie glanced back at Sam, who was trailing behind them now, and gave him a 'do you know what's going on?' Look. He shrugged a big shit-eating grin on his face, like the unhelpful asshole he was.

Returning her focus to where she was going, Maggie found that Steve was leading her toward Thor, the literal honest to god God of Thunder, who surrounded by a group of Veterans, in the middle of an animated retelling of one of his many adventures.

"Steven. Samuel." Thor nodded in greeting as he wrapped up his story.

"Thor," Steve said. '"Gentlemen," he addressed the veterans. "I'll like to introduce you to a friend of mine. Ignacia Ramirez."

"My friends call me Maggie," Maggie interjected before anyone could get into their heads to call her Nacha. THAT was her grandmother's name, and she didn't want to deal with any tittering from Sam when he saw her annoyance.

Glancing around, she realized that quite a few of them were looking at her with some interest. "What is a nice girl like you hanging out with these two?" One of them asked in Spanish with a wink.

_Oh God._ Maggie hesitated as she realized that she had the full attention of about half a dozen men with the countenance and demeanor of her grandfather. "Oh. Making sure they don't get into too much trouble." She answered in Spanish with a smile.

"Your Spanish isn't bad." Another of the men chimed in also in Spanish. "Where are you from?"

"Not bad?" She echoed in mock hurt, "I'm from Texas!"

There was laughter followed by a cascade of murmurs of approval. Then the pocketbooks came out. She tensed before she realized they were all removing photos of their daughters, granddaughters, and even great-granddaughters. A few of them also had old snapshots of their wives. And they'd started bickering about who's was better looking. _Oh, Steve._ Maggie wasn't sure if she wanted to throttle the man or give him a kiss. Either way, it was a marked improvement from how she'd felt only a few hours before.

"I'll leave you to it," Steve said with a smile.

Maggie rolled her eyes. "Bastard." She muttered still in Spanish.

This earned a series of laughs from the group. Maggie settled down with her drink, while the men monopolized the evening talking about their wives, many of whom had passed away, and their children and assorted grandkids and great-grandkids. They didn't ask many personal questions, which Maggie was very thankful for. Mostly they were glad to be able to converse with someone in their native language, and with (as some of them had so eloquently put it) someone as beautiful as she was. She found that she was laughing by the end of it, smiling easier than she had been in well over a month. For a moment, it felt that the fog of depression had lifted, or at the very least lifted, and she could breathe, full chested, without feeling like she was choking back cheers or stifling down a panic attack. She was back among her people, the reason she'd been running an equine therapy ranch in the first place.

"Sorry, gentlemen, but I'm afraid I have to take Ms. Ramirez from you," Sam announced, putting his hand on her shoulder.

Maggie immediately felt the sharp twinge of anxiety twist in her stomach. She looked up at Sam, who was smiling warmly, amidst the chorus of complaints from her audience. "I'm sorry. Thank you for a lovely evening." She said as she rose to her feet. "Goodnight! Thank you!"

"It's good to see you laughing again," Sam murmured as they walked away and toward where Steve and Romanoff were waiting for them.

"Well. That was a one-time thing, okay? You can fully expect grouchy, depressed, angry Mags back for the duration."

"You guys heading out then?" Romanoff asked.

"Yeah. Have to get the airport and all that." Sam nodded.

"Be safe," Steve said, immersing Sam in a hug before they exchanged a chaste peck.

"You too, Steve," Sam replied softly as they parted.

Maggie turned to Romanoff, "Do you think we should kiss?"

"I mean if you want?" She smirked.

"Thanks for that, Mags." Sam rolled his eyes.

Maggie stuck her tongue out but turned to Steve, who had turned to face her squarely. "Thank you, Maggie, for coming down to the party. I hope that you enjoyed yourself at least a little bit."

"I did. Thank you, Steve." Maggie went up on tiptoes giving him a brief hug. "We'll have to talk when I get back."

"Agreed," he nodded before they parted.

Maggie turned back to Romanoff, "Thank you, for the fashion help, it was a real save."

"Any time."

"Be safe. And don't do anything stupid until we get back stateside." Maggie gave both Romanoff and Steve another round of quick hugs before Sam took her by the elbow.

"Come on. We gotta grab our bags and change." He said, not quite urgently but with enough of an edge to know that they were going to miss their plane if they lingered any longer.

"Let us know when you make it to Buenos Ares," Steve called after them.

"Will do!" Maggie waved. "Have a good rest of your evening!"

Against all the odds, it had been a quiet evening, and she hoped that it would remain a quiet evening as they traveled to Argentina and to parts unknown. Turning one last time before they disappeared out of sight, Romanoff waved with a smile before she guided Steve away and back to the main room beyond.

* * *

What are Sam and Mags going to find in Argentina? How are they going to react to the whole Sokovia SNAFU? Find out next time!

Hope you all enjoyed! I love Nat and Mags's friendship! Love to hear what y'all are thinking as this thing progresses!

As always! Happy Reading!


	25. In the Belly of the Beast

Author's Note: Marvel owns what it owns, and I own what I own, let's keep it that way shall we? Don't Sue me!

TW: implied medical torture, medical torture, medical trauma, swearing, lots and lots of swearing

Recommended Listening: Run Through the Jungle by Creedence Clearwater Revival, Sympathy for the Devil by Rolling Stones, Two Against One (feat. Jack White) by Danger Mouse & Daniele Luppi, Gimme Shelter by The Rolling Stones

* * *

Ch 25: In The Belly of the Beast

They made it to Buenos Ares and their hotel without incident, and without much in the way of conversation, Maggie threw herself into bed. It had been a long 11-hour plane ride, and she hadn't been sleeping well to begin with, so she relished the thought of sleeping for a few hours in a comfortable bed before they marched out into the jungle where she'd be sleeping in a hammock instead. However, instead of a nap, she found herself tossing and turning, drifting in and out, vaguely aware that Sam was taking in low, hushed tones on the telephone on the other side of the suite.

"Everything alright?" she mumbled as Sam walked back to the bedroom area.

"Stark created murder bots apparently," Sam said, running his hands over his head as he sat down on the opposite side of the bed.

"What the fuck?" Maggie struggled into a seated position.

"Yeah. Destroyed a whole bunch of stuff, including Jarvis."

"Shit. Is everyone alright?"

"At the moment, yes. Steve just called to make sure we were alright and to let us know it might be a good idea to stay off the grid for a few days while they fix this." Sam paused, "He wanted to double-check that all your stuff on Barnes is either backed up or hard copy."

"Yeah. I wouldn't trust Stark with that information. It's all in my journal or hard copy locked away." She replied.

"Yeah, that's what I told him." Sam sighed, moving to remove his shoes, and stretched out on the bed.

"You okay?" Maggie asked.

"Just worried is all."

"Do we need to fly back to New York? Is this an all hands on deck situation? What's the contingency here?" She searched Sam's expression as he closed his eyes, putting hands behind his head, a picture of total ease. However, by the slight grit in his jaw, Maggie could tell that the cogwheels were turning just below the surface.

"Steve wants us to say put and follow up on your lead." He said after a brief pause. "And to be careful. We're on our own out here."

Maggie's stomach turned. She hadn't thought about that. The idea had crossed her mind. They were headed into dangerous territory. They were headed to a former Hydra base, anything could happen, but in everything they had planned in all the briefing and pre-mission discussions, it ultimately came down to they had Steve and Nat watching their six, always had the Avengers just in case things went sideways. Now, apparently, that wasn't the case.

"Having second thoughts?" Sam commented as if reading her mind.

"No. Of course not." She shook her head, brusquely. "Thinking through our options and contingencies."

"So, that would be a yes?"

Maggie snorted, laying back down on the bed, she rolled over to face Sam.

Barnes had been on the run for over a damn year, and they were unlikely to come across anything earth-shattering in this Hydra base. This was, at the very best, a wild goose chase, but at the time they'd planned the Argentina trip, anything had seemed better than sitting around the Tower waiting around for Becca to die. Now, well, it seemed stupid that they were planning on climbing through the Argentine jungles in the hopes of finding something about the Winter Soldier, who was in all likelihood in the former Soviet Bloc. And now there were murder bots.

"This is old intel, Sammie. If you wanna go back to help Steve and Nat and the others, just say the word." Maggie said, adjusting her position on the bed.

Sam shook his head. "I'm not an Avenger, and I personally don't wanna get involved in Stark's bullshit. I'm sure if Steve wanted my help, he would've said so."

"Yeah. He's good about that." Maggie agreed. There was a long silence as both of them silently sorted through their thoughts and the next immediate action. She chuckled after a moment. "I tell that ass hole not to do anything stupid, and less than 24 hours later, he calls to let us know that he's fighting murder bots."

"That's hardly his fault," Sam said.

"Fair, fair." She nodded. "Still, begs the question, can you Samuel Wilson stymie Steve Roger's stupid bullshit?"

"Further study required." Sam sighed, rubbing his face. "Damn it."

Maggie frowned. This wasn't like Sam at all. "Okay, Sammie. What's going on?"

"Nothing."

"Sam. That's not at all convincing."

He sighed. "Mags, am I Steve's rebound man?"

"What?" Maggie raised her eyebrows. "Like what you're just a place holder until we find Barnes?"

"Yeah."

Maggie scooted closer, reaching her hand out to touch the top of Sam's head. "Was I a place holder for you with Riley?" She asked so softly that Maggie wasn't sure if Sam had heard her at all.

There was a long silence, and Maggie was almost convinced Sam had fallen asleep.

"That was different, Mags," Sam said slowly after a long moment. "You and I weren't brainwashed super-soldiers, for starters."

Maggie chuckled, "That would've made things interesting."

"What I'm saying is, this isn't the era of 'Don't ask don't tell' and it isn't the 1940s anymore. Things are different, different for him, different for me. It's hard to know where I stand with the guy." Sam sighed.

Maggie nodded. When she and Riley had first started dating, Maggie had joked, albeit lovingly, that she was Riley and Sam's beard. It wasn't until much later that she realized how true that was. If anyone had found out how close Riley and his wingman were, things would've ended badly for everyone. Maggie had served as a buffer for suspicion while being romantically engaged with both Riley and other partners (women, men, and everyone in between). It wasn't until they'd started getting serious that Riley and Sam sat her down to discuss the precise nature of their relationship and how that would shape any plans for the future. Maggie loved Riley and adored Sam, and so the arrangement had been beneficial and amicable.

How exactly a triad would work with Sam, Steve, and the ever-elusive Bucky Barnes remained to be seen. Would Barnes be interested in something like that? Would Rogers? Becca had made mention that she'd always assumed that the boys would come as a package set when and if they ever decided to settle down. Not everyone was interested in polyamory, which was understandable. It was challenging to make things work between two people, never mind adding in the X factor of trying to work things out between another unknown party.

"I don't think you're a stand-in for Barnes. You, Samuel Wilson, are a delight, and from what I could see from Riley's perspective, a loving and doting partner. Anyone would be lucky to have you." Maggie said.

"But?"

"Oh, there isn't a "but," that's the way I feel about you. And that if Steve can't see that you're a catch, he's the biggest dumbass I've ever known."

Sam snorted. "I know that's not _all _you think about me."

She paused, thinking over the past year, over the past three years now, since Riley had passed away. Their relationship hadn't been a good one. He'd all but disappeared on her before the miraculous rescue, and she hadn't exactly been the most pleasant person to get along with since she'd joined the manhunt for James Barnes and the Winter Soldier. They'd both been grieving and hurting and trying to make sense of the crazy new world they'd found themselves in. It was a world that Sam had entered willingly and one that Mags had been dragged into, kicking and screaming, a world that she wasn't sure she wanted to be apart of.

_There might not be a way out anymore._

She'd been trying to avoid that thought, but it plagued her late at night when she should be sleeping. Sam had a choice, Sam could walk away any time he wanted, and for whatever reason, he decided to stay. Maggie would have to see this through to the end, whatever the end may be. That, or find some way to get out before she became more collateral damage to the messy world of spies, gods, heroes, and super-soldiers.

"You still with me, Mags?" Sam asked softly, his voice low and rumbling in his chest.

"Yeah. Sorry." Maggie sighed. "Thank you, Sammie."

"For?"

"Believing in me? Supporting me on this wild goose chase."

"I trust you."

"That's awfully kind of you."

Sam stopped, sitting up, he turned to face her squarely. "Is there a reason why I shouldn't?"

"I dunno." She shrugged. "I haven't exactly been the nicest to you since you and I were forced back into one another's life."

Sam surveyed her, "I still trust you."

"But? Com'on Sam, we both know there is a 'but' in that statement."

He sighed, laying back down on the bed. "What do you want me to say, Mags?"

"I want you to say what you're gonna say."

"And what if you don't want to hear what I have to say?"

"It certainly hasn't stopped you in the past," Maggie replied.

Again Sam sighed, and again she could see the cogwheels working inside his head as he decided what he wanted to say. "We should try to get some rest. We have a long few days ahead of us."

"All right." She drew back her hand and rolling over onto her back she sat up. "Fine. What time do we wanna try to get going in the morning?"

"Around five, we have a long bus trip and hike out to where we need to get."

Maggie nodded but said nothing as they prepared for bed. She knew she wasn't going to be able to sleep. Her mind was too awake now filled with the events of the day and the prospect of tomorrow, along with everything going on back in New York with the Avengers and the associated nonsense accumulated over the past year. Instead, she grabbed her stress dummy out of her bag and worked through the various PT exercises to strengthen her hand when Sam finally dozed off.

Listening as Sam's breathing first evened out before finally evolving into an all-out snore, Maggie couldn't help but think about what Sam had said about being a place holder for Barnes for whenever they found him. It brought into sharp relief, what was going to happen when they did inevitably find Barnes.

_If you ever find him mean._

Maggie wasn't an idiot. It was a big _if_ when it came to tracking down Barnes. There were no certainties in life, least of all when you were tracking down a former Soviet Agent with a cybernetic prosthesis, retrograde amnesia who also happened to be Captain America's best friend and lover. So what did it mean when she found Barnes or (more likely) she was forced to give up the search for whatever reason. She was currently using this search as a place holder for putting her life back together, because what point was there in even trying put her life back together at the moment?

_When we find him, I'm either gonna kiss him full on the mouth or punch him in the face._

She hadn't decided yet.

Since Becca's passing, she'd been trying to sort through how she felt about James Barnes, the man, the myth, the murderous cyborg, etc. She'd stopped having cutesy dreams. She was no longer having rendezvous with the man her mind had decided was James Barnes. That, she'd decided, was probably was for the absolute best. It wasn't wise or healthy to think about him in that way. That James Barnes was a pure figment of her imagination. Okay, so what did that leave her? 'Matt' from Last Chance and the Winter Soldier. Neither promised to be pleasant companions in her dreams. Whatever the case may be, she was going to have to sort all of that shit out before they did find him or deal with the awkward and unfortunate consequences.

Drifting in and out, Maggie tried to focus on positives in her life, on the good things that had come out of the entire situation. Sam was back in her life. She was traveling, living debt-free for the first time in her adult life, she'd gotten to know a beautiful woman who she loved and now missed very much. She'd become friends with Steve Rogers and Natasha Romanoff, two Avengers and honest to god amazing human beings, despite intense and persistent protests from the latter about that. She'd built something of a community, despite her being an outright bitch to most of them for the better part of two months. There was a lot to be thankful for. Yet, there was still that concern, that doubt, that ever creeping, and gnawing fear, what was going to happen when, inevitably, the other shoe dropped.

Despite Maggie's wishes and best attempts, the alarm did eventually go off, and they rose and checked out of the hotel before 5:30 and were on the bus headed to the middle of nowhere by 6:00. After several missteps, including getting on several wrong transfer busses, they successfully arrived in the middle of nowhere. Stopping for water and directions from some of the locals, Sam and Maggie then turned to the jungle, equipped with a map, compass, their wits, and all of Sam's survival skills. They walked in silence for the first hour or so, only stopping to drink water and check their heading. Maggie took point, every fiber, every inch of her being focused on the task at hand.

"So. What's the best-case scenario, Mags? What's the best possible outcome?" Sam asked a few yards behind her, his voice muffled and as damp as the dripping jungle around them.

"Finally got sick of the silence, huh?" She chuckled lightly. "Ummm," Maggie paused to check the compass she had in her outstretched hand. "Best case scenario? Barnes is there and rolls out the welcome wagon for us."

She could hear Sam's eyes roll. "You know what I'm talking about Magdalen."

"Oh. Fine. Fine. Best most plausible scenario." She paused, adjusting her backpack. "The woman we talked to, she said that no one has been near the former base in years. I'm hoping we find something more than just ruins, perhaps intel."

"Okay. Fair. By why the hell would Hydra put a base way out here?"

"I dunno. They're Hydra. Why do shady organizations have bases anywhere anymore when we have Reddit and 4chan?" Maggie shrugged.

"You're not wrong, but that still doesn't answer my question."

"Well. If we find a Hydra flunky while we're out here, I'll be sure to ask him that."

"How do you know it'll be a he?"

"Oh Sammie, now you're just nitpicking. I think our Hydra agent in question will be a he because most serial killers and mass murders are white men. So not only are we looking for a man but a white man in the middle of the Argentine jungle."

"Statistical anomaly."

"Well, Nazis in Argentina, weirder things have happened."

They trudged on for what seemed an eternity until they stumbled upon the crumbling ruins of the former Hydra base, just as Maggie's research and local knowledge had confirmed there would be.

"Holy shit." Sam breathed, taking in the sight of the ruins.

"Didn't think it was going to be here?" Maggie asked, glancing back at Sam.

"I'd rather hoped."

Maggie chuckled weakly. "Believe it or not me too." A dead, leaden feeling filled her stomach. "Okay." She continued with a deep breath. "What do we do first?"

"Establish coms, secure perimeter, and set camp before we review the sat scans and discuss strategy."

"Should we send Steve our coordinates? Check-in?"

"He gave me his burner number, but with murder bots, I have my serious doubts he'll be answering any of our messages."

"I get that, but just in case something happens. I'd like someone to know where we are. Leave some kind of footprint and a trail for Nat and Steve to follow if the worst happens."

Sam nodded firmly, "understood."

He sent the message, and they set about the preliminary tasks needed to venture safely into the crumbling ruins of a former Hydra base.

She unpacked her hiking pack, removing a smaller backpack from within, packed with survival essentials: Water, a flashlight, paracord, first aid kit, spare batteries, a video camera, walkie talkie, a machete, emergency shovel, and a utility knife. In addition to the survival essentials, she slipped her journal into the front pocket with several spare pencils and a pencil sharpener.

"Line one, line one, do you read me Mags?" Sam's voice rang out in her ear.

"Line one is live, reading you loud and clear." She answered the knot twisting in her stomach sent a painful jab in her abdomen.

They were almost ready to enter the old base, who knew what horrifying discoveries awaited them, or who might be waiting for them.

"You okay?"

Maggie whipped her head around to meet Sam's concerned gaze. "Yeah, Sam. I'm fine." She stammered.

"Mags, I gotta know if you're good," Sam said shortly as he removed and loaded his handgun from his bag.

Maggie glanced between the firearm and him. "Yeah, I'm good."

"You don't have anything to prove. You don't have to go in."

_If you're not going to be able to hold it together, t_hat was the unspoken meaning behind his words, and she wasn't going to rise to it. She'd planned this mission, found this base, she was going to follow it to its natural conclusion. Maggie snorted. "I think it's a little late for that. I'm going in. It'll be more effective with two."

"Okay, but say the word, and I'll get you out," Sam said.

"I'm good, Sam." She repeated one more time just to assure herself and Sam that she was indeed going to be able to play it cool once inside.

Sam nodded, and they approached the old entrance of the building, almost completely covered over with moss and vines. Clearing away the rubble and the overgrowth, they entered the crumbling ruins silently and in a single file. Maggie and Sam moved through the upper level of the compound. It looked as though it had once been a single large room. If there had been upper floors, their remains had been stripped away for scrap or as evidence for whatever had caused the explosion in the first place. Feeble sunlight filtered through what remained the moss and vine-covered windows, and holes in the ceiling allowed for limey water drip onto the cement floors forming little stalagmites on the floor. The only sounds that could be heard outside of their shallow intake of breath and their footsteps was the steady drip drip drip of water and the fading sounds of the jungle as they moved further and further from the entrance and natural light.

Maggie recorded it all on her video camera, doing her best to keep the camera steady while also capturing every detail.

"You said there were at least four basement levels." Sam's voice broke the silence, making her jump.

"Yeah. At least." She nodded.

"We're going to lose natural light, switch to flashlights, stairs are to your right. I'll go first." Sam instructed.

"10-4" She swallowed following behind Sam without another word.

They descended into darkness, the flashlights only marginally helping to illuminate the soggy air. Every breath felt like it was sucked in through a damp sponge and smelled heavily of rot and decay.

"Well, this is fun," Maggie muttered, wrinkling her nose pulled her bandana over her nose and mouth.

"Not exactly my first choice for a vacation spot, but better this than murder bots."

"Fair." Maggie nodded, glancing around. Spotting the same thing, they both stopped looking at the diverging hallways. "I'm likely going to regret saying this, but we'll make better time if we split up."

"I agree."

"The 'I'm going to regret this' or the splitting up thing."

"Both. Keep the coms channels open and report anything interesting." Sam said shortly.

Maggie snorted, but nodded, "Yeah. Sounds good. Good luck. Be safe."

"You too."

They both turned to their respective corridors, and paused, glancing at each other before walking silently down the halls.

It was slow going, but Maggie could only imagine it would've been even more tedious had they been together. Sam was very thorough. It was his military training, she was sure. But Maggie knew what she was looking for, and it wasn't going to be in any of the empty offices, stripped clean of anything sensitive. What she was looking for would be hidden.

She cleared the second level, and proceeded down the stairs, to the sub-level three. This floor hadn't been as thoroughly cleared out. There were files and papers scattered on the floors, and the desks she did find in the various offices and corridors looked as though they had been ransacked.

Maggie stopped as she moved to exit the last office she'd cleared when she noticed that three shelves had been left standing upright. The entire room had been more or less flipped upside down, but those three massive metal shelves were untouched.

They looked like munitions racks, heavy sturdy, not about to move any time soon. "Hey, Sam. I'm on sub-level three, last room on the left before the stairwell. I think I've found a tunnel." She said, her breath stirring up the dust, mold, and who knew what else around her.

The com line crackled. "Sam? Do you copy?" She called out.

Again there was nothing but the gentle crackle of the line. Her heart started pounding. _Something's happened._

"I read you." Sam's voice washed over her. "Want me to proceed to your location?"

"No. Nothing confirmed yet, proceed as normal, will assess as necessary."

"10-4."

"Sorry, have to set you down to avoid this going all Clover Field. I'm not Matt Reeves or J.J. Abrams." She muttered setting the camera and flashlight down facing the shelves and approached, feeling out the floor with her foot, Maggie smiled to herself as she found grooves where the shelves had been dragged back and forth.

Grabbing the shelf, she threw her body weight against it and was more than a little surprised when the shelf gave way without much of a fight. A gust of stale air rushed into the office space, smelling of rot and decay. "Fun." She grimaced and picked up the camera and flashlight before she took a step toward the tunnel that the shelves had produced for her.

"Found a tunnel, Sam. Going to investigate. If you don't hear from me in thirty minutes, come looking for me." She called.

"10-4 proceed with caution."

Should she have told Sam that the tunnel was creepy and smelled of death? Probably. But she wasn't going to wait, wasn't going to hear anything about it being 'too dangerous' or that this was something Sam should do. She'd found the super scary tunnel, and she was going to be the one to follow the tunnel down to wherever it might reveal.

Fortunately, it wasn't a narrow or squat tunnel. In fact, it was tall and wide enough to accommodate two Steve Rogers sized people without any particular trouble. Thick electric cables ran the length of the ceiling, showing that there had once been electricity to the currently very dark and very creepy secret passage. This wasn't a tunnel built for a quick escape or storage. People had been in and out of here regularly, and from the looks of the thing, they'd been rather bulky people. The walls and ceiling were plastered, the floor (or what she could see of it through the mildew and algae) was cement, and she found that she slipped and slid as the passage dipped further down into the ground.

After about a good fifty to one hundred feet, the tunnel opened up into a room. Office space, there were four desks, and at least a dozen filing cabinets lined up against the wall, three doors lay beyond. Maggie exhaled. "Jackpot. I found files, Sam!" She practically laughed.

Without waiting for a response, she walked over to the cabinets and yanked at the first drawer. It didn't pull out, and she glanced at the lock. "Right." She said slowly. Dropping her backpack, she turned the camera off and set it down beside the pack. Removing her utility knife, rammed it in the lock, busting it in two.

"Mags?"

"Down here, Sam." She called, returning the knife to its sheath, shoved it in her belt, before yanking the drawers open.

"You didn't waste any time."

"Absolutely not. Wanna get the others?"

"Sure."

There was the general sound of metal creaking and scraping as Sam dislodged locks and opened the filing cabinets.

"Know what we're looking for?"

"Anything to do with Red Room, Winter Soldier, or the Wolf Spider Project. All things that the Winter Soldier was involved in."

"You've done your homework."

"You can copy it if you like. I have a cheat sheet in my journal." She replied lightly.

"I'm gonna try to get the power on. One of those rooms has to be a generator room. Maybe we can get power back up."

"You think that's a good idea?"

"If you're going to scour files for a few days, we're going to need air circulation and power down here. Steve gave me some Stark Tech to help with that." Sam said, rising he turned to the three doors. "Which one?"

Maggie stopped, turning squarely to the doors. There weren't any markings or anything to distinguish them from each other. "Your guess is as good as mine."

"I'll take the one on the left if you take the one on the right."

"Sure." Sounds good."

They walked over to their respective steel-reinforced door, and Maggie exhaled a shaking breath. "Please be the generator room. Please be the generator room." She whispered, pushing against the door it opened without so much as an ominous creak.

Shining the light around the room, Maggie grimace. This room was decidedly _not _the generator room. It looked like it had served as an operating room. A surgery table sat in the middle of the room and occupied most of the space. Although upon further inspection, Maggie realized "surgical table" might have been a little more than generous. It was a metal table that had thick leather straps attached. Instinctively she looked down at the floor. It had a drain. "Ahh. Fantastic." Her stomach twisted into knots, her heart beating faster.

"What you find?" Sam asked from the other room.

"Operation room. I think. Torture chamber more likely." She answered, the taste of bile stinging on the back of her tongue. "You?"

"Generator room."

"Lucky bastard," Maggie said, exiting the room, she popped her head into where Sam was buried deep in wires and cords. "You want help?"

"Nah, I got it."

"I'll go see what unspeakable horror is behind door number three." She said.

"Be careful Mags," Sam warned, but she was already at the door,

Like the first one, the door gave way easily, and she shined the flashlight around, trying to get a feel for the size and content of the room. There were cryogenic tanks, four of them each upright in a corner. "The Winter Soldier or someone similar was here at some point!" She called over her shoulder before taking a hesitant step into the interior of the room.

Then, her eyes finally focused long enough to spot what occupied the center of the room. A metal chair bolted to the floor, with arm and ankle straps of tempered metal and leather to ensure the occupant remained seated. Just above the headrest of the seat, there were metal plates, approximately the right size, and shape to fit around a man's head. "Oh, fuck." She breathed out sharply, but she couldn't move, glued to the spot.

"What? What's going on." Sam rushed up behind her, and stopped in the doorway, his flashlight casting more shadows around her. "Mags. What is that thing?"

Maggie took several steps forward to examine the plates, which were lined with electrodes of some kind. She'd read about this, bits and pieces here and there in reports, building the shape of a thing that she hadn't quite been able to fit together, now, here it was. "This was how they reset his memory."

"You mean they..." Sam faded off, entering the room behind her.

"Fried his brain like a fly in a bug zapper until he forgot who he was? Yes." Her voice was shaking.

"You okay?"

"No." She shook her head, out of the corner of her eye, one of the cryo chambers caught her attention, and she turned to approach it. It was a gigantic metal hulking thing with a single-window and several locking mechanisms on the outside. Pausing, she put her hand on the handle and glanced up at Sam, who was watching her intently.

"You sure you wanna do that?" He asked.

"Leave no stone unturned?" Taking a deep breath, she hauled the metal tube opened and peered inside.

The inside was white porcelain, or it had been once. There were thick straps, again of leather and metal, that had been added after the initial fabrication of the cryo chamber. She paused, looking at the lid and the frosted glass window, and frowned. Maggie brought her hand to the score marks, her fingers lining up. "Oh. Fuck."She wrenched her hand away as if she'd received an electric shock.

"What you find?" He walked up beside her, peering over her shoulder. "Are those?"

Maggie nodded mutely, afraid if she'd opened her mouth she'd throw up. Her stomach turned, the air in the room was sticky and clung to her skin and made her lungs ache. "I think I need to go sit down." She managed, before turning and staggering from the room, and back out to the filing cabinets where her backpack was.

Sinking to the floor, she pulled the bandana away from her face and took a long draw from her water bottle.

_He'd been here. They'd held him here. The chair, the cryo tank. Fuck. He was awake when they locked him in that thing. Fuck. _

"Fuck." She muttered, shaking her head, she returned the water bottle to its place and rose shakily to her feet and turned back to the filing cabinets.

She'd honestly expected a pile of mush, considering the state of everything else. However, this being Hydra who'd apparently invested in state of the art, weatherproof filing cabinets, the files emerged as pristine, and the day they'd been put into the filing cabinet. Her fingers worked deftly as she flipped through each file, eyes scanning for each of the keywords she and Natasha had put together and that Natasha had made her memorize.

Maggie could hear Sam moving around her, back into the generator room. Her brain buzzed. They had a chair, the chair they used to electrocute him until he forgets. They had the operation room. Did they torture him? They _did _torture him. Torture him so that they could make him forget, torture him so that he'd kill for them.

She'd known, she'd known that's what they'd done. They'd said as much in their file. But actually seeing it, seeing what they'd done and how they'd done it.

The image of the fingernail marks clawing at the inside of the metal cryogenics chamber sent a chill up her spine. He'd probably used the metal prosthesis. Then again, she'd seen several photos and read many accounts where they'd removed the prosthesis. Was that why? No. If she knew Hydra, there was a more sinister reason for removing the "asset's" metal limb. They'd tortured him, and who knows how many others, in that room. Why exactly, she didn't know. She did know that the only way she was going to find out is if she read through the files she'd found, which would still only be second to asking the man himself. _Or what's left of him anyway. _It was a cruel and horrible thing to think, but how much of Bucky Barnes had survived the seventy years of trauma and torture and killing and bloodshed that had filled his existence since his disappearance in 1943? It was difficult to say. All that remained for her to do was her best to fill in the missing pieces, learn as much as possible, and figure out a way to bring this man home, one way or another.

Her eyes jerked her back into the mildewed, moldy vault as they recognized one of the file names. It was one of her keywords. "Sam, I think I found something." She called out, pulling the file out, as Sam walked over to where she was sitting.

"Anything useful?"

"Not sure yet." Maggie hesitated, glancing up at Sam. "Wanna see?" She inquired.

Sam nodded, sinking beside her, wiping his face with his bandanna and adjusting his grip on his flashlight. "All right. Take us away, Mags."

Maggie exhaled, opening the file across her lap.

There he was, James Barnes, the Winter Soldier. There was his photo paper-clipped to the inside cover. Like the file from Kyiv, there was the photo of The Winter Soldier in the Cryogenics chamber, and then another of Bucky Barnes clipped to the bottom. It was a strange juxtaposition, the man and the weapon side by side. Maggie turned to the text, which was all in Russian. Skimming the text, she found that she was more or less following along with the description, and with the accompanying photographs, it was pretty clear what they were talking about. There were before and after pictures, showing the physical and mental state of the subject. In the before photo, the Winter Soldier, Bucky Barnes, was heavily restrained, his head practically in a vice, struggling against the attendants. His expression was a glower as he was forced to look into the camera. She'd seen the same expression, well very nearly the same expression when she'd discovered him in her barn. It wasn't quite anger, but terror mixed with a blinding, sustaining rage. However, despite all the rage and anger and fear in the "before" photograph, the "after" photograph was even worse. In that photograph, the Winter Soldier, Bucky Barnes, wasn't restrained. He was sitting in The Chair starring at the camera with a vacant expression. His eyes, sharp and piercing like knives in the before photo, were docile and lifeless in the after picture. Whatever they had done to him had been tremendously and incredibly effective.

There was a ton of medical jargon in the report, naturally all in Russian. She and Nat had fortunately anticipated some of this and had compiled a list of Russian medical terms in a handy reference list before leaving for Argentina. Reaching blindly for her backpack, she retrieved her notebook as she starred at the word(s) in question, focusing intently. "Whatcha find?" Sam asked.

"I'm not sure. But for some reason, I recognize this word, and I don't know why." She said, flipping through her notebook until she found what she was searching for. "I hate it when I'm right."

"What?"

"Psychotropic drug cocktail in addition to a shit ton of painkillers." She explained. "Whenever he was on while on Last Chance, he was going through what looked like serious withdraw symptoms." Maggie shook her head. "These Hydra fuckers pumped him full of shit to keep him, and I would bet his pain, manageable. I can't imagine how they ensured he could think clearly for missions, but whatever they did, it was effective." She rubbed her face, closing her journal with a snap. "And that stuff's highly addictive, meaning even if Barnes had managed to escape, the withdrawal symptoms would have been so catastrophic Hydra would've been able to track him down and bring him back into the fold."

"So how'd our guy do it then? Avoid Hydra? Because we know they were looking for him. Probably still are."

"He was hiding my barn for two weeks, remember?"

"Right, My bad." Sam frowned, stroking his chin thoughtfully.

Maggie rolled her eyes, returning her focus to the file in front of her. She was going to have to spend some time with the file to extract everything she needed from it, but only after she went through its contents completely.

"What do you mean keep his pain manageable?" Sam looked up at her, brow furrowed.

"Well..." She began slowly, flipping through the file. "I didn't get a good look at the arm when he was on Last Chance with me, but it looked like it was inset into his chest, with a metal plate. I can't imagine that it was painless. I seriously doubt that arm is very light, it was built for strength, not for wearability. And." Maggie paused, squeezing her eyes shut. "If I remember correctly, he said he had sensation "of a sort" with the arm. Which means sensation and nerve connections, if not just a brain implant to make the arm work. I have serious doubts that Hydra got that right the first time. After looking at Barnes's medical charts from other Hydra bases, it's clear most of his left arm survived the initial fall."

"So why remove the arm all the way? Why have a full metal arm?"

Maggie could feel her blood run cold, and her hands shook as she picked up a report. "This is why." She squeezed her eyes shut as she handed the file off to Sam. The bitter taste of stomach bile stinging the back of her throat as her stomach twisted.

"Holy shit," Sam muttered under his breath, his eyes focused on the photographs.

There was a series of them. Naturally, Hydra wanted to be thorough when documenting the creation of their weapon. Barnes hadn't started with a full arm prosthesis. It had been something that had attached just above the elbow. "Too Heavy" and "Not properly attached" appeared multiple times in the file. "Attachment site infection" and "site rejection of prosthesis" also appeared. So they'd cut a little more, and tried to attach the metal prosthesis with marginal success. "Subject was able to remove the prosthesis without authorization," was another phrase that Maggie had been able to parse out. Then the Winter Soldier Arm as she knew it had made an appearance. They'd inset a metal plate into his body cavity to stabilize the muscle and, in some cases, even replaced muscle, bones, and socket tissue. It was strong, the subject was unable to remove it without basically a surgical procedure, and it was difficult to rip off completely. "Subject attempted to..." _Fuck. _Maggie turned away, clenching her eyes shut.

"What?" Sam asked.

"Last photo." She winced.

"Oh, fuck."

"Yeah."

"He attempted to."

"Yup."

"And we're done." Sam removed the file from her unresisting hands and placed it in his bag.

"Done?" She echoed, watching as he rose to his feet.

"I'm going to need some parts from my bag topside, and I'm not leaving you down here alone."

"Sam, I'm fine." Maggie protested.

"I know. That's the problem." Sam extended a hand to her. "Come on. Let's get something to eat, review footage, and we'll talk through our options."

Maggie opened her mouth to protest but was interrupted by her stomach, belching excess bile into the back of her throat, triggering her gag reflex, and making her dry heave. Swallowing back both her wounded pride and the acidic bile, Maggie took Sam's hand, and he hauled her to her feet.

It wasn't a long trek back to their campsite, or rather not nearly as long as it had taken them to get down into that sub-basement bunker. She could feel Sam beside her, ever watchful and always thinking.

For her part, Maggie tried to memorize the route, how many steps had they taken between the bunker file room and the entrance of the tunnel, how many minutes passed between the office space concealing the tunnel to the set of stairs, then stairs to the surface. It was tedious and boring, but it was something to keep her mind off of what she had just witnessed, something that was likely to keep her up for days, if not years into the future.

Sam and Maggie released a collective breath as they exited the crumbling remains, and Maggie yanked off the bandana she'd been using to cover her mouth and nose and took in a dramatic breath of fresh air.

"You hungry?" Sam asked as they reached their campsite.

"Not particularly. Where did you stuff that file?" She asked.

"Food first."

"How can you possibly think about eating after all that?" Maggie asked, but immediately put her hands up when she saw his expression. "Right. Stupid question, ex-soldier, stomachs of steel and all that shit."

"You eat and sleep when you can. How's your water intake?"

"Minimal."

"Then, hydrate." He tossed her a fresh water bottle, before topping off his own from one of the multi-gallon jugs they'd brought with them.

Maggie rolled her eyes but obliged him. The last thing she needed was Sam nagging her when there was no one else around for miles to either come to her aid or stop her from bludgeoning someone with a rock.

"For tonight's dinner options, we have Spaghetti with Meat Sauce, Chili with Beans, and Diced Chicken. What are we feeling, Mags?"

She wrinkled her nose, the very thought of eating anything at the moment was repulsive, but eating MREs was even worse. "Chili with beans, I guess. Couldn't Stark have hooked us up with something a little bit bougie-er than MREs? The guy's a billionaire, and former military contractor, certainly he has some hookups when it comes to food."

"Better than what Riley and I ate back in the day, and definitely better than what Steve and the Commandos had way-way back in the day."

Maggie snorted, shaking her head. "I didn't realize C-Rations and hardtack were setting the bar."

"You should ask Steve about it sometime. The guy won't shut up about how much better the food is now. I told him he should start a food blog."

She smiled, nodding amicably as Sam sorted through and prepared the MREs. That would be a thing, Captain America, foodie. It would certainly be a change of pace from murder bots and an ongoing international manhunt.

Again her mind drifted back to the bunker, to what she had seen, to the file, and the photos. Her eyes turned to Sam's bag, where he'd shoved the folder. She wanted to look at it again, wanted to pour over the yellowing pages, wanted to extract every last drop of information that she could, like wringing out a sponge, twisting and squeezing until there was nothing left to find.

She was vaguely aware of Sam handing her the chili with beans and the cornbread that went with it. Her body it seemed was hungry enough to auto operate the correct functions needed to ingest food, but her mind was gone, far away, trying to think of anything and everything she could to avoid the bunker and all it's contents, while simultaneously trying to figure out a way to get that file from Sam.

"Mags?" Maggie blinked to find that Sam was watching her, a concerned look on his face. "You okay there?"

"I'm fine, Sammie," Maggie said, trying to sop up the last of the chili and beans with the cornbread.

"Yeah, because you look like someone who's well adjusted and coping." Sam shook his head, that all too familiar look of frustrated resignation on his face.

"What Sam?"

"Nothin', you wanna hear Mags."

"Say it, and be done with it. Otherwise, it's going to be a long few days out here in the sticks, Sam." She said crossly.

"It's going to be long regardless of what I do."

Maggie rolled her eyes, "Thanks for that."

Sam sighed, standing up, he started collecting the garbage from their meal and began to pace the length of the camp.

"Just say it, it can't be any worse than the shit we've said to each other in the past."

"You're not coping. You're not processing, grieving, whatever you need to do to move on." Sam blurted out. "Over the past year, it's been like watching a train wreck in slow motion because you're not working on coping with what's happened."

"You think this is a spiral?" She snorted.

"Look. I know I wasn't there for you when Riley died. I fucked up. I get that. You have every right to be mad and angry at me about that, but I'm here for you now, and I'm saying that I'm worried about you."

"I appreciate your concern, Sam, but I'm fine." She said flatly. It was, of course, a lie, but she didn't want to get into any of that with Sam at the moment. He had enough on his plate without her dumping on him.

"I don't know what's worse, that you think I'd believe you, or that you're trying to convince yourself that you're fine."

"Thank you, Dr. Phil."

"Mags, I'm being serious."

"I don't need a lecture right now, Sammie. I really, really don't."

"Oh. Okay. So what I'm just supposed to sit back and watch you self destruct?"

"It didn't seem to bother you before I lost the ranch to this superhero fiasco, not sure why you're bothering with it now."

"Why are you doing all of this? Why not take the witness protection? Start over, clean slate. It would better than dragging yourself through all this shit." Sam asked exasperation chiseled into his features.

"You know I can't. I have to get him back. I have to find him, for Becca and—"

"Jeezus. Mags." Sam cut her off.

"What Sam?"

"You can't fix everything. This isn't your responsibility."

"That's not what this is."

"Then what? What is bringing Barnes in going to achieve?"

"If this was Riley, wouldn't you want someone to do everything possible to get him back?"

"But this isn't Riley, Mags, this is something else altogether."

"That's not the point."

"No. I think that is the point. Getting Barnes back isn't going to bring back Riley, or Antonio, or Becca. It's not going to change what happened last May. It's not going to _fix_ anything. Finding Bucky Barnes isn't going to fix anything, Maggie. You can't expect it to, because it won't. It's not fair to you, and let's be real that's a lot of unrealistic expectations to put on a guy who's had his brain repeatedly fried for the last 70 years."

"Sam."

"It's true, Mags. Finding him isn't going to fix you, and you aren't going to fix him. That's just the way it works. The only way that this is going to get better for you is if you work on it. That means you have to process this shit."

"Sam, you don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't I?"

"Sam." Maggie exhaled slowly and looked up at Sam's expression.

She wanted to tell him that no, she wasn't okay, that everything about this was wrong. She wanted to tell him that she felt like she was barely treading water and that if she stopped, she might go under entirely. Above all she wanted to tell him that she knew, she knew finding Barnes wasn't going to fix everything. She didn't think he was going to fix anything. That was the point.

She didn't _want_ to fix anything, because that would put her into direct conflict with something she'd been avoiding for over a year. Everything she was, everything that had made her Magdalen Ramirez was gone. She didn't want to work on herself, because that would mean that sooner or later she would have to come face to face with the reality that she had no idea who she was anymore, or that perhaps even more horrifying she didn't like the person who had taken her place. Bucky Barnes wasn't going to fix her. He was just the distraction so that she didn't have to try to fix herself.

"I'm grateful that you're concerned. I know that I'm spiraling. I just really haven't had a chance to come up for air. When I get the opportunity to reset and recharge, I'm going to take it. I promise." Maggie said slowly. "But first, we need to focus on our mission here. And the only way we're going to be able to do that is if we're not dragging out my mental health here in the middle of the Argentine jungle."

Sam nodded, "If that's what you wanna do, I can't make you take care of yourself. But you can't help other people if you don't take care of yourself."

Maggie said nothing, for better or worse, she had nothing to say that Sam wanted to hear. She was focused on their mission at the moment, and although it was likely to lead to a highly self-destructive end, she was going to see it through.

"All right then," Sam said with a heavy sigh, breaking the long silence. "Let's focus on our game plan for the next few days."

They talked and planned, and reviewed the footage Maggie had taken until midnight before they crashed hard in their hammocks, thankful and grateful not to be sleeping on the ground, and to be protected from the elements and mosquitos.

The following day Sam got the power up and running in the bunker, which allowed for easier cataloging of their findings, and she settled into her task of cataloging and prioritizing.

Maggie wanted to take all the files but knew that the Argentinian Government wouldn't be exactly thrilled if she tried to take highly classified documents across their borders. So Maggie was selective, only taking those that were relevant to the Winter Soldier, and the other keywords that Natasha had sent her along with.

She and Sam didn't talk. There wasn't anything for them to talk about, Sam had said his piece, and now he was going to let her act like a big girl and take care of it. That aside, spending 12 hour days digging through an abandoned Hydra lab didn't exactly create much in the way conversation

So Maggie did what she usually did, she retreated into herself and mentally picked apart what had happened. Maggie couldn't get the chair, the cryotube, and that first file out of her head. It had sunk in through her skin and seeped into her brain, driving her, pushing her. She had to know who that man was, who that person was. She needed to know what sort of weapon James Barnes had become, and what they might be facing should they ever succeed in tracking him down.

"Hey, Mags!" Sam's voice made her look up. His expression was grave as he emerged from the tunnel into the file room.

"What is it? What happened?"

Sam stopped, trying to find the right words before he spoke. "They dropped a country out of the sky?"

"What? Who? Why?"

Sam extended his phone to her, which she took and started reading. "We...we should've gone back. We should've canceled whenever Steve said Murder Bots."

"You think you and I could've done any better?" Sam asked as she handed him back his phone.

"I mean, you are The Falcon."

"Now you're just being mean."

Maggie shook her head, rising to her feet. "I have one more drawer to go through. Then we have everything related to our case. If you wanna leave now and get back there to help, now. We can go." She said. "This is going to fuck up some serious stuff. Like. This is bad, Sam. This is really, really bad."

"I know, Mags." Sam nodded. "Can you finish everything up in the next two hours?"

"Yeah."

"I'll see what I can do and what strings I can pull, but I may be able to get us a Quinjet out of here."

"Sounds like a plan."

It felt like everything was spinning, and Maggie felt feverish as she thumbed through the last of the files. Packing everything away in the extra bags she'd brought, she knew there would be time for closer examination of her findings later.

The Avengers had dropped a country from the sky. So far, no one had been able to produce a body count. There were a lot of injured people, but any number of dead, no matter how small, that would be blood on the Avenger's hands. What did that Mean for Steve and Nat and the others? What did that mean for Sam and her and their little mission to find James Barnes, super-assassin, and weapon of Hydra? But as she had told Sam, this was going to fuck up some serious stuff. Their ability to find Barnes, Sam's ability to stay out of Stark's bullshit, and ultimately her ability to go home.

Shutting down the generator and erasing all evidence that they'd been there, Maggie collecting her things, she met Sam out on the surface. By the time she came topside, he'd already packed up camp and was organizing an LZ for the Quinjet.

"We'll have touch down in about five minutes. You got everything?" Sam asked

"God, I hope so." Maggie nodded, looking down at her load. Nearly a week's worth of work to find, it would take months for her to decipher and translate the bunch of them.

They passed the time in silence, tension building, and swelling as they waited, before the collectively exhaled as the Quinjet came into view, landed, and the ram lowered to reveal Steve and Romanoff.

"Well, aren't you a sight for sore eyes," Sam said as Sam and Steve rushed toward one another. Embracing, they kissed in greeting. Breaking apart, they pressed their foreheads together, murmuring things Mags couldn't hear as they held one another.

Maggie turned to Natasha, who was looking grave faced as she approached. "I thought I told you two not to do anything stupid until we got back stateside," Maggie said, going to embrace her. "I'm glad you're safe."

"Couple of close calls, how about you guys? Find anything useful?" Romanoff replied as they pulled apart.

"Some. We cleared out the pertinent information." Maggie paused, uncertain if she should tell Natasha or Steve about what else they'd found down there.

"You saw it, didn't you?"

Maggie opened her mouth to respond but was cut off by Sam, "Mags, Nat, let's get moving, the Argentinian Government gave us a narrow window. We gotta go."

"I'm sure we'll do a full debrief once we get settled in."

"Settled in?" Maggie echoed.

"Stark's moving Avenger's headquarters." Natasha sighed. "It's a long story." She added, seeing Maggie's perplexed expression.

"I'll bet."

"Let me help you with those." Natasha picked up several bags of files and moved effortlessly toward the Quinjet.

Maggie caught Sam's gaze, his expression a mix of equal parts concern and resignation. Maggie hadn't had the opportunity to stop, to rest, to come up for air. Now with this new turn of events, it didn't seem like she was going to get that chance anytime soon, she knew it, and Sam knew it. But what could any of them do? There was nothing else for it, that's just the way it had to be until it didn't have to be that way anymore.

* * *

So this was a mammoth chapter! I don't think the remaining five are shaping out to be nearly the ~9,000 words that this one was. I hope that you all enjoyed it! What do we think? Well, I think as always, poor Mags, but also damn Bucky. Sam continues to be one of my favorites to write, and I hope you all enjoy him as much as I do.


	26. Fail Safes

Author's Note: Marvel owns what it owns, and I own what I own, let's keep it that way shall we? Don't Sue me!

Serious SERIOUS TW: suicidal ideation, suicidal thoughts, self-harm ideation, blood, nightmares, medical trauma, graphic medical trauma, torture, and implied medical torture

Recommended Listening: Born To Die by Lana Del Ray, Outside by Hollywood Undead, Enter Sandman by Metallica, Until It Sleeps by Metallica, Ghost by mystery skulls

* * *

Ch 26: Fail Safes

_He was in the chair. They had him strapped down. There was the buzz of the electrodes, and just above the hum, he could hear the words being spoken. He didn't need to hear them to know what they were. They were dragging him back, dragging him down, stripping away his humanity, and leaving only the weapon, leaving only the Soldier._

_'Your name is Bucky Barnes. You were born March 10, 1917. Your parents' names are George and Winifred Barnes. You had three sisters: Abigail, Rachel, and Becca Barnes.' He tried to focus, tried to fight it, tried to cling to what he knew to be facts, to be truths. 'You're best friends with Steve Rogers. You have to get back to Steve. You have to get back home, get back to your home, to your family, to your Steve.'_

_He could hear the screams, his screams, mixed with the screams of those the Soldier had killed, those that he had killed. He could see the shining eyes of the doctors, no not doctors, butchers, who operated on him. _

_He could feel himself being pushed down, locked away, just below the surface, screaming, begging, pleading, bargaining, fighting with every ounce of strength as they pulled him apart, and pushed him out of his own mind. _

_The pain grew and swelled, even as he fought. He knew if he surrendered the horrible things, they would make him do. But he would surrender, he would always surrender._

_Then there was nothing. _

_'Soldier'_

_'Ready to comply.' _

He awoke. Sitting bolt upright, a thin sheen of sweat covered his face. He wiped at it with a shaking hand. He winced as he moved to throw his legs over the side of the bed, his back and shoulder twinging, a sharp pain shooting up and down his spine.

_Your mind and body are not your own._

Since he had found out about Becca, what dreams he'd had, what memories he'd recovered, they'd not been pleasant ones.

He remembered the chair, the electrodes, the pain. He remembered the fight. He remembered how he'd given in, how he'd given in every single time.

He exhaled, elbows on his knees, head in his hands, he tried to ease the pounding in his skull just behind his eyes.

_Your mind and body are not your own._

It was only a matter of time before they crawled back inside his skull. It didn't even have to be Hydra. Anyone could control the Winter Soldier. All they needed were the right words. He wasn't safe. The world wasn't safe. He'd managed to break Hydra's conditioning once, would he be able to do it again if they sunk their claws back into him?

"Ahhh." He cried out, trying to find a way to release the pressure behind his eyes, find a way to make it stop, to make it all stop.

He was crying. He could feel the tears as they fell, the salt stinging the skin around his eyes. It was a release of a sort, but it wasn't a permanent fix. The pressure would return and with it a headache that would linger for days, threatening to crack his skull into two.

How long could he go on like this? How long could he possibly keep this up? Trying to stay one step ahead of Hydra, and keep Steve, Romanoff, and whoever else was looking for him two steps behind him. He couldn't run from Hydra much longer, and he couldn't hide from Steve forever. This wasn't sustainable, not in the long term.

_I honestly thought I'd be dead or captured by now._

It was a grim thought, but honest. He was lucky that he'd managed to evade capture this long. He'd certainly had his close calls.

Was someone keeping people off his trail? He was a master assassin and expert covert ops agent, but he'd made several crucial mistakes, mistakes that should've gotten him captured or killed.

It could be either Romanoff or Steve; they both had that capacity but would do so for vastly different reasons. Romanoff had likely figured out by now that he didn't want to be found, and as a professional courtesy, was eliminating possible threats. Steve, on the other hand, well, Steve would keep people off his tail so he could find him first.

_Steve._

He remembered Steve. Steve was the first thing he'd remembered. It was what had broken the Hydra programming. He could remember that moment, that second that he'd broken the hydra programming, as the helicarrier was collapsing around them. It had been like waking from a horrible nightmare, only to find that he was the monster with blood on his hands. He'd woken up many more times since then, drenched in sweat, remembering what he'd done, everything that he'd done, being reminded over and over of what he had done, of all the horrors he'd committed, all of the blood on his hands.

Then the fall. Steve had fallen, and he'd gone after him. He hadn't been sure why, he still wasn't entirely sure why he'd decided to drag him from the river, but there was something, some part of him, some compulsion to protect Steve.

Was that why he'd kept on running? Why he didn't want Steve to find him now? Was he trying to protect Steve, protect someone that Bucky Barnes, that he, had loved from finding out the truth about what he'd become? Was he trying to protect himself from what Steve might do if he knew everything that he had done as the Winter Soldier? Or was it the simple reality that just like that, Hydra could take it all away again? He didn't know if Steve would accept the dangers or understand the realities of who or what he was. The man had been prepared to let the Winter Soldier bludgeon him to death. He wasn't going to accept what he had done, not going to accept that things were different now. They had to be different because as long as he had Hydra's programming in his head, there was always the potential that he could be compromised.

So what was the fail-safe option? Put a bullet in his skull the moment that there seemed to be a chance that might happen? It wouldn't guarantee anything. Hydra had brought people back from the dead before.

_This is the fail-safe option._

He hated admitting that, even to himself. Despite everything, running and hiding was still the best way to protect himself and others from what the winter soldier was capable of.

There was no fail-safe option. There was no respite. He would run and hide, and then when it came to it, he would fight to make sure Hydra never took him alive.

* * *

_She awoke. She was in her own bed, not at the compound, not at the tower, but at home, her home, the house on the ranch. The windows were open, the light breeze stirring the gossamer curtains, casting shadows in the moonlight. _

_Maggie glanced around, her shirt clinging to her clammy, sticky skin. "Mags." _

_She turned her head toward the doorway where the voice had come from. That voice, she knew that voice. Scrabbling from the bed, she wrenched the door open and found that whatever had called her name was gone._

_"_ _Mags?"_

_She blinked, peering cautiously out of the bedroom door. "Riley?" She called out, her voice shaking._

_"_ _Mags? Where are you?"_

_"_ _Riley!" She rushed down the hallway to the stairs._

_"_ _You have to find me, Mags." The voice called, and Maggie slipped and slid down the too slick wooden steps._

_"_ _Riley. Where are you? You have to let me find you!" She cried out, stumbling through the living room, the ofrenda intact and where it should be, pictures of Riley and Sam on the walls, into the kitchen where Riley's voice was calling her._

_Maggie stopped, she could hear a kettle boiling on the stove and the creak of the hinges on the swinging door between the kitchen and the living room. The smell of rot and mold and decay filled her senses. Her eyes, which had adjusted to the dark hallways of her house, blinked as they tried to filter what was now emerging before her._

_"_ _Thank you for joining us, Ms. Ramirez. I'm sure there is a lot you could teach us." She turned to see a face emerge from the dark corner. The man, the man who'd tortured her, who'd set her house on fire._

_"No." She shook her head, backing away, she was stopped as she backed into a wall. _

_Whirling around, she looked up into the face of the Winter Soldier, his cold hard eyes staring down at her, his jaw clenched, his expression unfeeling. "James." She breathed._

_"_ _No. Not James. But the Winter Soldier has been invaluable to our mission, and now you will too."_

_Maggie backed away, just enough to see the Winter Soldier hold up her phone. Riley_ _'s audio letters playing, or bits of them anyway._

_"_ _James. You have to listen to me." There was a pleading in her voice as she back away from him. _

_He didn_'_t respond. Instead, she was grabbed by cold hands, and a sharp sheering pain shot through her body, making her double over even as she fought against the hands dragging her toward the table._

_The table, she was back in the bunker, back in their operation room, their torture chamber. She looked down to find she was covered in blood, her blood, a metal hand, a metal prosthesis dangling from her left forearm. She screamed, struggling against the men trying to haul her onto the operation table._

_There in the corner stood the Winter Soldier, watching her with those cold, unfeeling eyes._

_"_ _Help me!" She tried to scream but was gagged._

_They pulled her back onto the operation table, leather straps securing her to the hard cold metal surface, the sound of whirling blades and scraping metal filled her ears even as she screamed._

_The Soldier did nothing. _

Maggie jerked awake, her 5 o'clock alarm pulling her from her dream. Reaching blindly for the clock, she turned off the alarm and fell back against the pillows pulling the microfleece blanket back over her head. Her nightmares had been getting worse and had only picked up in intensity since she'd gotten back from Argentina. Gone were the days of picnics in the park, and root beers at the soda fountain. Now she was dreaming of the Winter Soldier, dreaming of all the terrible things he'd done, and had been done to him.

_I can't imagine why._

She stretched, sitting back up, letting the blanket drop around her waist, and glanced around at the books and papers scattered across the bed, nearly obscuring the blankets and comforter below. The more sensitive material was locked away in her desk, and since the move from the tower to the compound, she'd insisted on biometrics for all her locking mechanisms. She wasn't going to take any chances with what she'd found. She should destroy them, but something was stopping her, something that she couldn't quite put her finger on. So she'd locked the files away, but she couldn't lock what she knew out of her brain.

She couldn't get what she'd seen out of her brain, She couldn't un-know what she had learned, and it was driving her to the edge of sanity.

_Natasha warned you. Warned you not to cross the point of no return, because it meant that you could never go home, and now you know she's right._

Go home? That was practically laughable. She would be lucky to even get out of this alive at the rate she was going presently.

Maggie groaned, hauling herself from the bed, changed into her jogging clothes, and pulled on her running shoes before grabbing her identification and apartment key, phone and headphones, and heading out the door.

It was still early, so she'd be running with the legion of people out at the compound, but it was one of the many things she found that she liked about the transition between the Avengers tower and the new Avenger's compound. Something about being in skyscrapers, looking down at the city below, had made her feel completely and utterly alone. Now, closer to the ground, and with most of the compound sprawled out over several acres, she was more likely to see and interact with people.

Of course, since the avengers owned the property vis-a-vis Stark Industries, she had free range of the entire space. So she could take early morning workouts without being snatched up by Hydra agents, and without having to clear her daily schedule with her security detail.

Turning on her running playlist, she started off on a brisk jog. The exertion helped her focus, helped her clear her mind, and she needed all the help she could get when it came to that department.

The weather was fair, and while cool, it hadn't rained overnight, so the path was dry. The trees were green and lush, and the grass and brush along the running trail were thick and dense as the early morning fog rolled off the landscape and around her as she ran. It reminded her of the ranch. That was another reason she liked it. It reminded her of home. She was closer to home than she'd been in over a year, but it hurt to even think about how far away from that life and that world she was.

_Better than all the other things you could think about._

And she was back to her regularly scheduled program. Her brain and her environment weren't giving her much to work with. It was either think about the horrible nightmare, think about the horrible things she'd learned, or think about the horrific truth that she was never going home.

Maggie paused, yanking out her left earbud at the sound of approaching footsteps. _Steve. _"You are not going to 'on your left' me, Steven Rogers!" She shouted, whirled around before he could pass her, and put her hands on her hips.

Practically skidding to a stop, Steve let out a breathless laugh. "Good morning to you too." He grinned, "So I take it Sam told you that one, huh?"

"Yes, he did. And while I didn't intend to run into you this morning, I figured I'd seize the opportunity to say hello since it seems you've been avoiding me." She said.

It was true. Since Argentina, she hadn't seen much of Rogers. She wasn't entirely sure if that was just the nature of the beast since they were more or less down to only Natasha and Steve running the Avengers. Stark and Barton had apparently retired, Bruce was MIA, and Thor was off doing whatever it was that an extraterrestrial with a massive magical hammer did.

Or he was just avoiding her.

Either possibility was likely, and even if it were the latter rather than the former, she wouldn't exactly blame him.

"I don't think avoiding is quite the right word," Steve said.

"I mean aside from things being ass-tastically busy since May and the fact that we moved from the big city to the middle of nowhere? Yeah, I think you're avoiding me."

Steve sighed, nodding before looking back up at her. "I wasn't avoiding you. I've been trying to give you space to work through everything."

Maggie frowned, surveying Steve critically. He believed what he was saying, Maggie could tell that much at the very least, but the words coming out of his mouth sounded like Sam Wilson. "I have been working through some of the files." Maggie nodded agreeably, steering the discussion into a more favorable direction. She wasn't about to throw Steve under the bus if Sam had been telling him that she was working on her mental health. It was probably better for Steve's well being and mental health if he did think she was taking care of herself, even if that was the farthest thing from the truth.

"Oh." Steve said brightly, "How's that coming? Anything of note?"

"Nothing of immediate application, you would've heard about that. I am trying to put together a timeline between 1945 and 2014, maybe expose a pattern of Hydra operations to give us a better idea of where primary bases and secondary safe house locations were to narrow down even further where he might be hiding out."

"Oh," Steve said again, this time with a lot less enthusiasm.

"It's a process. But I'm making good headway."

"Anything that you didn't already know? Anything I should be concerned about?" Steve asked.

_You should tell him. You should tell him what you've found out. Tell him what you know._ Her brain screamed at her, but Maggie ignored it. What would that do? What function would it serve? What good would come of knowing when there was nothing they could to do to change that fact? It wouldn't help her sleep better at night if she told Steve, and it certainly wouldn't do anything for the already strained tensions between the Avengers and the world. Sometimes an omission of certain facts was better than telling the whole truth. _You're a goddamn hypocrite. _It was true, but it didn't change the fact, what she knew would break the avengers, and she couldn't be responsible for that.

"Nope. But I'll be sure to tell you if I do come across anything pertinent." She smiled, a little too brittle and a bit too wide.

"Sounds good." Steve nodded. "Everything else good? You liking the compound?" Steve asked, glancing around at the green rolling hills, and dense trees.

"An adjustment."

"Yeah, I—" Steve was cut off by the sound of his phone beeping. Pulling the phone from his pocket, he sighed. "Sorry, gotta run. We'll have to catch up later." He rushed, shoving his phone back into his pocket.

"No worries, get to where you gotta go, Cap'," Maggie smiled, sidestepping to allow Steve to move past her.

"Thanks, Ramirez, good to see you."

"You too, Steve."

And with that, he disappeared down the running path. Maggie sighed, rubbing her face before putting her earbuds back into her ear. "Yeah, no, I don't think so." She muttered, skipping 'Enter Sandman' on her jogging playlist before she started back down the path in Steve's wake.

She grudgingly finished her run, went back to her room, showered changed, and settled back into her work for the day. It was only 8:00 am.

Coffee cup in hand, she paused outside the office door, surveying her domain. It was slightly less dreary than the office back in the city. It had windows overlooking the lake and a beautiful view of the tree line and hills beyond.

She'd managed to get her ugly Craigslist couch moved over with her other belongings, and it made her smile. Perhaps it was her sense of rebellion or just the fact that it was one of the few objects in the apartment that were her own, but she loved that sleeper sofa because of the gross color and stains and the whole personality it possessed that all of the modern lines and clean looks of minimalism that the Stark Aesthetic so clearly was going for did not. During the move, she'd found a couple of side tables and matching coffee table on Craigslist that was very clearly third hand, well-loved, and showing all the signs of being used with coffee rings, and nicks and chips and scratches that came with that.

Maggie had also painstakingly documented and then recreated the world map with all of the notes, pins, and documents on the largest wall of the office. Unfortunately, aside from recreating the damn thing, she hadn't touched it since she'd moved into the compound, which all things being equal was not a good sign.

However, she had added another two journals to her collection, bringing the count up to three, which considering how much paper she'd been sifting through since she'd opened Natasha's 'point of no return file' and then, of course, the payload she'd acquired after Argentina, was unsurprising. There was more information, but far less that she wanted or even could share with Sam, Steve, or even Natasha.

Picking up a file from her desk and her journal, she sunk on the couch and dove in. It was strange, really, the mundanity of it all. She'd woken up early, gone for a run, and now was drinking coffee, and sorting through files. There was nothing in there that in and of itself was nefarious or horrifying enough to give her nightmares for years, yet, here they were.

_I'm going to die. This information is going to get me killed._

Yes, that's what Natasha had warned her about. She could've walked away, she _should've_ walked away, but she hadn't, determined to bring Barnes home to his sister, determined to make it right. Now here she was, Becca was dead, Barnes was no nearer to being found, and she was stuck with a head full of information that could get her killed or worse.

_You need to tell someone, need to get help, seek advice, try and talk through it with someone. But who?_

"Anyone home?" Sam's voice called from the front door.

"Where else would I be?" She called back, sitting up she closed the file before he could come to the office door.

"Damn. I still can't believe Stark let you bring raggedy-ass couch with you."

"Well, hello to you too," Maggie snorted, "And for your information, Stark didn't personally check every inventory list. Since I'm not smuggling thermonuclear warheads, the couch made the cut."

"I guess that's fair."

"And it's the most comfortable piece of furniture in this goddamn compound."

"I dunno about that, my bed is pretty damn comfortable."

"You and Steve having fun breaking it in?" She raised an eyebrow playfully.

"Ha. Ha. You're hilarious." Sam rolled his eyes.

"Well. I'm glad to hear that you find Stark's furniture selection up to snuff. I am more than happy with my shabby ass craigslist furniture." She said.

"Fine fine. Keep the damn couch." He laughed, sinking onto the sofa beside her. "Hi, Mags."

"Hey, Sammie." She smiled, "Long time no see, how's it going?"

"Oh, you know the usual bit. How about you? How you doing? Liking the compound?"

"Why does everyone keep asking that?" Maggie shook her head.

"Cause we care about you, and wanna make sure you're liking your new digs?" Sam shrugged.

"Can't complain. It's an adjustment, can't go down and around the corner for Tacos, but I can also go and run to my heart's content whenever I want, so it's a trade-off."

"You know you could just _make_ the tacos here in your apartment."

Maggie snorted, "Where's the fun in that? Particularly if _I _have to make an effort." She shook her head. "What about you? Other than the comfortable bed you and Steven are breaking in, how's the compound life treating you? I haven't seen you. It's been forever since we've had one of our sad briefings."

"Sad briefings?" Sam echoed.

"You know the ones where we both report that we've found nothing and get to watch Steve choke back disappointment."

"Oh yeah, those are so _fun._" Sam rolled his eyes.

"That's why they're called sad briefings, Sam."

"Well, is it rude of me to say that I don't miss the sad briefings?"

"I don't exactly miss them either, but I miss you two jerk faces," She said.

"Sorry we've been busy."

"No, I get that." She paused, watching him carefully.

They'd been on somewhat better terms since Argentina. Since he'd said his piece, Sam seemed more relaxed. He was still concerned, of course, she didn't think he would ever stop being concerned for her, but there were far less unsaid assertions now that it was all out in the open. It felt less like an ax was hanging over their heads, and things were feeling almost like they had before Riley had passed away.

Was he the person that she could confide in? What would he do if she told him what she'd found out? Did he already know? Could she count on him not to tell Steve and the rest of the team? She didn't know for sure, but she had a feeling what her ultimate conclusion would be.

"To what do I owe this unexpected visit?" Maggie asked after a moment.

"I wanted to drop by to talk to you. There's something I need to tell you."

_Oh fuck._ Her heart began to thud wildly in her chest, her anxiety sending her mind spinning a mile a minute. "Ho-Kay." She nodded, prompting him to continue you.

"I'm joining the avengers."

Her heart stopped, "What?" She practically choked. Of all the things she'd expected to come out of Sam's mouth that hadn't been one of them. Should she have expected it? Probably? But to actually hear it, that was something else altogether.

Despite her reaction, Sam charged on, "Steve and the others, they want me to become an Avenger. Since the Barnes thing isn't resolving itself anytime soon and I don't exactly have anything going on in D.C. anymore..." he trailed off at her open-mouthed stare. "What?"

"I thought—I mean I thought you—I thought it was-" She stammered, unable to form a complete sentence.

"I know I said I wasn't going to get involved, but things change."

"Things change?" Maggie echoed as she rose to her feet, collecting her journal and folder, marched over to the desk.

Sam paused, taken aback. "You're mad."

Maggie looked away from him, shaking her head, a thousand different things running through her head. Her hand went to the chain around her neck, fingers fiddling with the two gold wedding bands.

_You're nothing but collateral damage, but if you tell him now, you're putting everyone in danger, including and especially him._

"No. No, I'm not mad. Just surprised is all." She said as slowly and evenly as she could manage

"You're a terrible liar."

Maggie exhaled a strangled sigh before turning back to him. "Sam, I thought you were done being a soldier, following order and all that shit?"

"This is different. Being an Avenger isn't the same thing as being some grunt in the Air Force."

Maggie shook her head. "You tell your mom and sisters yet?

"No. Figured I should tell you first."

"How considerate." The words came out barbed.

"Wow," Sam muttered, shaking his head, "I'm an idiot,"

"What Sam?"

"I thought you'd be excited for me. Proud of me even. You know how Riley felt about Cap', about all of it. I thought you'd understand."

"That's not fair. You can't use that against me, not after all of this." Maggie said. "I am proud of you, Sam. I just want you to be safe, and I know enough about this business to know that there's no such thing."

"So what, you want me to decline their offer?"

"No." Maggie shook her head. "I didn't say that. I want you to do what makes you happy. Just don't ask me to be overcome with the joy at the prospect of my friend, probably my best friend being the target of every super-villain, assassin, and asshole with a gun, super suit, and a grudge."

At this, Sam's shoulders relaxed slightly, though his body was still coiled ready to fend off any oncoming attack verbal or otherwise. "I can respect that."

There was a long pause before Maggie spoke again. "You really should call your mother. She's going to be able to give you the response you're looking for, Sammie."

"Yeah. I guess you're right." He said, rising to his feet. "See you later for our brief?"

"Yeah." Maggie nodded, "Hey, Sam." She called after him, stopping him before he could leave. "Thank you for telling me. I do appreciate it. I'm sure you were dreading this conversation. I wish I could be happy, but you know that I am proud of you."

"Thank you. And I understand."

"See you this evening for our weekly brief." She smiled.

As Sam's footsteps faded down the hall, the smile seeped from her face, and she could feel herself sink even further into her chair. "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck." She pinched the bridge of her nose, squeezing her eyes shut.

_Why am I the bad guy with this?_

Didn't anyone else see what a dangerous line they were walking? The risks and dangers of this whole superhero thing?

_You just know something that no one else does. It's not Sam's fault you're not sharing anything._

She needed to tell someone. She needed to say what she'd found out loud, to someone who'd be able to give her something approximating advice and a somewhat sympathetic ear. She'd hoped that person would be Sam. She could always count on him to give her the honest truth. But he was dating Steve, and now he was an Avenger. He was at the heart of the Avengers, and closest to the people this information would harm most. She couldn't burden him with that.

Taking several deep breaths, she pulled her phone from her hoodie and typed out a quick message. If she couldn't talk to Sam and she couldn't talk to Steve, there was only one option open to her.

"You wanted to practice driving?" Natasha asked, walking into the garage thirty minutes later, with a slightly perplexed expression on her face.

It hadn't been one of her smoothest texts, but the cover story covered in a pinch, all things considered. "Yeah. If that fits into avengers practice." Maggie replied, shoving her hands into her front pockets.

"I have a few minutes. You have a car in mind?" Natasha's eyes didn't leave her, always watching, always evaluating her. Did she know something was wrong? Did she know that Maggie was freaking out? Probably. But with any luck, why exactly wouldn't be a mystery in a few minutes.

"How about that Ford Truck?"

Natasha nodded, following Maggie over to the truck. "You know the way."

They drove in silence out to the driving track. Parking, Maggie removed the audio scrambler and signal jammer that she swiped from one of the tech arsenals back at the tower out of her pocket, activated it, and set it on the seat between her and Natasha.

"What's all this about, Ramirez?"

"I need to know nothing I say leaves this truck."

Maggie looked up into Natasha's face expecting some sort of amusement in her features and instead found it bent with concern. "Okay."

"You swear?"

"You have my word."

Maggie paused, she hadn't been expecting to get this far, to find someone (even Natasha) willing to keep this secret. She wasn't sure she could even verbalize it. Collecting her words, she began slowly. "As you know, I've been compiling a list, a timeline of the Winter Soldier's operations."

Natasha nodded, giving Maggie the courage to continue. Squeezing her eyes shut, Maggie took a deep breath and counted to ten before opening her eyes and charging on. "December 16, 1991." She said flatly. Natasha raised an eyebrow but said nothing to Maggie continued. "The Winter Soldier was sent on a mission, December 16, 1991, to sanction and extract, no witnesses." Maggie took another deep breath before charging on. "December 16, 1991, was the day that Howard and Maria Stark were killed." She hesitated, meeting Natasha's gaze, unwavering and unrelenting. She couldn't turn back now. "I believe they were killed by the Winter Soldier."

There were several beats of silence as Natasha surveyed her.

_She's going to say I'm imagining things, or that I've been overdoing it. That sometimes, these things just happen, that I'm crazy or worse._

"How long have you known?"

"Just after Argen-." Maggie stopped, her brain finally catching up with her ears. "You knew." She couldn't believe it.

"I did warn you about the point of no return."

So she had, and yet here they were. But Natasha knew, Natasha had known before Maggie told her. It made sense, but Maggie couldn't shake her shock. "But you knew," Maggie repeated.

"Have you told anyone else?"

She wasn't going to get any further confirmation out of Natasha. Now it was all business, and she would have to focus on the practical aspects of what this all meant. "No." Maggie rubbed her face wearily. "I was going to tell Steve, and I was about to tell Sam, but-" She cut herself off, shaking her head.

"But?" Natasha prompted.

"It would destroy the Avengers. Maybe not that alone, but it would drive a wedge, a deep one, and I can't be responsible for that."

"But, you told me."

Maggie shook her head, blinking quickly, the anxiety and tension that had been building finally determined to come out in the form of tears. "I had to tell someone I had to get out of my head. Someone else had to know." She sniffled, wiping at her eyes. "I figured you have a more pragmatic take on these things."

"That's certainly one way to put." Natasha paused, looking her over. "You're scared."

Maggie snorted. "Shouldn't I be?"

"It's the first normal reaction I've gotten out of you since you arrived. Including that time you almost got snatched off the street by Hydra." Natasha's expression grew somber. "So, what's your plan?"

"You're assuming I have one." Maggie exhaled a frustrated sigh, sinking further into the driver's seat, thrumming her fingers on the steering wheel. "I told Becca I would find her brother, and that's what I want to do, but I didn't sign up to die trying." She exhaled sharply through her nose, "I plan on sticking this out as long as I can, but I want to know that when shit goes sideways, I'm not relegated to the damsel in distress role."

Natasha nodded thoughtfully, and Maggie continued. Taking a deep breath, she plunged on, "I want to survive, and I want you to teach me how."

The air in the truck was sticky and heavy with the pregnant silence. Maggie could feel her anticipation hanging in the air as she waited for Natasha's firm and immediate dismissal, prepared to make her case, by whatever means necessary.

"Okay."

Maggie blinked, "Okay?"

"What? You didn't think I'd say yes?"

"Something like that, yeah."

Natasha gave her a once over before looking out toward the driving course, "First. You should practice driving, make sure your cover story matches up to avoid arousing suspicions. Tomorrow I'll drop by your office, and we can start then. Does that work for you?"

Maggie turned her gaze to the road in front of her and nodded, "Yes."

Turning over the ignition, she returned the audio scrabbler and signal jammer to her pocket and proceeded with the driving course. She wasn't going to ask Natasha why. Wasn't going to press her for her reasoning behind why she agreed to help. She'd gotten Natasha on board. She wasn't going to ask why. In all truth, Maggie probably didn't want to know the reason why. Ultimately, all that mattered was that Natasha was going to teach her the basics of survival. Surviving was all that mattered now.

They finished their driving practice and returned to the garage in silence. They parted ways, confirming time and place for the following day, leaving Maggie to go back upstairs and back to her work. She didn't feel better now that it was out in the open, but she did feel better that she was drafting a plan, a fail-safe option should everything go to shit.

She couldn't count on Sam to protect her. She'd tried that last time, and it had almost gotten her burned alive. Now that he was apart of the Avengers, it would be even more difficult for him to ensure her safety. Not that her safety was his responsibility. That was why she was going to make her own plans. That was why she was going to take this matter into her own hands. She'd come too far, knew too much, and was far too stubborn to be nothing more than collateral damage. The next time things went sideways, she planned on being ready, and she planned on coming out not just alive, but on top.

* * *

So what do we think? Is Mags really in trouble Or just blowing it out of proportion? And BUCKY! Oh, boy, you guys. These next few chapters, I have so many many many feelings. I really really can't wait to hear what you think!

Thanks for sticking with me through this. We're going to get a bit of action soon, I promise!

Happy Reading!


	27. Brace Face Little Soldier

Author's Note: Marvel owns what it owns, and I own what I own, let's keep it that way shall we? Don't Sue me!

Recommended Listening: Everybody Hurts by REM, Let It Be the Beatles, and The Way you look Tonight by Bing Crosby, Riverside by Agnes Obel

* * *

Ch 27: Brave Face Little Soldier

He stood beside the Vistula River, feeling foolish. Yet, somehow, this felt right. He glanced down at the small flat stone, turning it over and over in his hand, the left hand shoved in his pocket.

It was Rosh Hashanah, which is why he was here at the river, reciting the Tashlikh service, hoping against all hope that he might cast away his sins. It was a time of repentance, of atonement, of making right the wrongs of the year previous, to be sealed in the book of life, rather than blotted from it permanently.

How could he right the wrongs that he'd committed? Was there any possible way to atone, to seek out forgives for the horrors and atrocities committed by his hand?

If he was honest with himself, he didn't deserve forgiveness, not when rivers of blood ran at his feet, and the weight of his actions was stacked against him. Coerced or not, he was still responsible, these deaths, these killings, these actions, even if he'd been Hydra's puppet, he'd still had a choice, and the Soldier had chosen over and over to kill and maim and destroy for Hydra.

Would casting this stone into the river do anything? He didn't know. He didn't know if he was religious anymore. If he even could be religious anymore. Yet there was something comforting about reciting the old prayers that he had learned as a boy and still knew by heart.

He remembered how he and Steve and their families would go cast stones or bread crumbs off the Brooklyn bridge every year during Rosh Hashanah in preparation for Yom Kippur.

"...He will take us back in love. He will cover up our iniquities. You will cast all their sins into the depths of the sea."

The words in Hebrew were slow and award on his tongue. It had been a long time since they'd been spoken by him. The language held a memory deep and rich unto itself. It reminded him of time spent around the family dinner table for Passover, Hanukkah, Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, and every Shabbat in between. He remembered the prayers spoken by other Jewish soldiers in the trenches. By Steve in the long nights during watch with the Commandos after his rescue. The hope and comfort that it had given them that it had given him. He found it did nothing for him now, not like it had, not like it used to, but then again, it had been a long time since then.

Had he prayed when he was the Soldier? Did the Soldier pray? No. Of course, he hadn't, Hydra hadn't built him for that, there was no room for prayer or religion in the world of the Winter Soldier.

Was that why the words felt hollow now? He didn't know.

Concluding, he glanced down at the stone in his hand and then looked back up to the river and offered up a silent prayer. _For all that I am, for all that I've done, may I find redemption and forgives. For all those that have been wronged by me, may they find justice and peace._

Becca, Steve, Natalia, Magdalene, his sister's family, his family, there were hundreds more he could name, thousands perhaps whose lives had been ruined by him, by the Winter Soldier. Sins and transgressions that he could never wash from his skin, black marks against him that could never be erased.

He cast the stone into the water, watching as it sank into the murky depths and then disappeared entirely.

He exhaled slowly, squeezing his eyes shut, tried to focus on the moment, and perhaps find some semblance, some measure, some iota of inner peace.

Forgiveness. Was that even possible? Could he forgive himself for all that he'd done? Would Steve? Would the world?

Furthermore, did he deserve their forgiveness? Could he earn it? He didn't know, and he wasn't sure he wanted the answer, though he was confident of what it would be.

Whatever the case may be, casting a stone into the river wasn't going to change what had happened. It might carry away his sins, but he could still feel them in his mind, in his body, in his very soul. So what could he do? What could make right these wrongs? He didn't know, but perhaps this was a start.

* * *

The summer had melted away into autumn, and as the leaves changed around her, and the weather grew colder, Maggie found that her mood likewise shifted. She was irritable, cranky, and frustrated. The search for Barnes had all but ground to a stop, since Sam, Steve, and Nat were focused on training up new Avengers, and the fact that they hadn't found any new leads meant that Maggie had a lot of spare time and energy. It allowed her the opportunity to focus on her survival lessons from Natasha when she had the time away from the Avengers. The lull in activity also gave Maggie a lot of time to sit and obsess over what little information she was finding out about Barnes. Mostly she just wanted to punch things, and so she trained so that she could eventually, effectively, achieve that goal.

"You looking for a sparring partner?"

Maggie turned her head to find Nat approaching the punching bags where Maggie had set up with her jump rope and work out gear. Stopping mid-jump, she winced as the rope hit the back of her legs with a sting. She looked Nat up and down, she was wearing leggings and a white tank-top, looking at ease, yet sharper than any knife Maggie dared handle. "Wouldn't mind the practice. If you're up for it after Avengers Day Camp."

"Someone's salty."

Maggie smirked, "I feel like I'm allowed on occasion."

"You seem to be milking that one for all it's worth," Nat commented. "Finish up your rep while I warm up."

"Milking it?" Maggie echoed with a light laugh, but Natasha didn't respond. They both fell into their familiar rhythm and completed their warm-ups in silence before climbing into the sparring rink

For her part, Maggie had been getting better, at least she felt like she was getting better, but was 1000% certain that Natasha would always be holding back on her, which in some small part Maggie appreciated. While being broken in half by a femme fatal may or may not be on her list of preferable ways to die, she wasn't quite ready to buy the farm, as it would happen. Yet, Maggie was curious. Could she hack it out in the real world? The 'real world' being someplace where she would need to fight to survive, and not the 'real world' as she'd known it back in the spring of 2014.

It all seemed so pointless. They weren't getting anywhere. It was like Barnes had disappeared off the face of the earth, and they were reduced to sifting through every grain of sand for even the tiniest clue of his location. And for what? To find a man who might not even remember who he was, or worse, might be beyond the hope of rescue and who would have to be captured and put down like a wild animal.

_It might be better if we just stopped looking if we didn't find Barnes at all._

"Oomph," Maggie grunted as Natasha threw her down onto the mat.

"You're distracted."

"Yeah. You got me." She moaned, sitting up and shaking off the boxing gloves.

"You wanna talk about it?" Nat asked, tossing Maggie a towel and her water bottle before sinking beside her on the floor.

"I just feel that I need to say this because we're probably all thinking it at this point."

"Okay, I'm all ears."

"Have we considered the real possibility that there might be a reason Barnes doesn't want to be found? What if he's still working as the Winter Soldier? What if he doesn't remember being Bucky Barnes at all?" Maggie reasoned before taking a long pull from her water bottle.

Natasha said nothing, but something passed over her face. Was it pain? Was it sadness? Was it regret? Maggie couldn't be sure, but something else pinged in the back of her mind as disparate pieces of files and intel and just downright intuition started to knit themselves into something very nearly intelligible.

"Do you plan on telling Steve that?"

Maggie choked on her water, coughing as it went down the wrong tube, she looked over at Natasha who was watching her with interest. "Are you fucking crazy?" She managed to wheeze after a moment.

"I think it's a valid point. If you want out, you have to tell Steve."

"That's not fair."

"Never said it was fair. But he does deserve to know."

Maggie sighed, nodding, "I know, you're right, per usual." She paused. It was a long shot. It probably wasn't even right, but she had to know, her curiosity was getting the better of her, and if she didn't ask now, she might not get the chance again. "Is he worth saving? Is there a man worth saving, even in the Winter Soldier?" Maggie couldn't look at Natasha as she asked, but she could feel the other woman's eyes upon her, cold and steely but not entirely unkind.

"Why ask me?" Maggie could hear the eyebrow raise in the other woman's question.

"One of 28 young ballerinas with the Bolshoi. One of 28 Black Widow agents with the Red Room." Maggie said slowly, looking over at Natasha, who was still watching her like a cat stalking its prey. If Maggie didn't finish now, she wouldn't get the chance again. "Hydra, The Red Room, The Wolf Spider Program, they're all connected. You knew the Winter Soldier, he trained you, it's in the files, but he was something else, something more..." Maggie faded off, unwilling to insinuate more, not with Natasha Romanoff, Black Widow and Avenger starring her down. Maggie blinked, looking away.

_This is it. This is how I die._

"You know, you would make a great spy if ever learned to keep your mouth shut, Ramirez," Natasha said cooly after a long pause.

It was a confirmation or the only confirmation that Maggie was going to get from Natasha. But it only made sense. The woman knew how Barnes moved. She knew where to find information. She knew all the keywords to look for, all of the different ways and different methods that the Winter Soldier and Hydra would use to avoid detection. The next logical step was that they had known each other. Yet, there had been other clues other hints that Maggie had seen both in Natasha's expressions and in the documents she'd read to indicate that The Black Widow Natalia Romanov and The Winter Soldier had been more, much more than just operatives in the field together.

"You've gone after the Winter Soldier before."

"Yes."

"So you'd know if he was leaving bread crumbs for us to find him."

"He isn't."

"So he _really doesn't_ want to be found."

"I'd imagine so."

"Any idea why Natasha?"

There was a pause, long enough that Maggie dared to sneak a glance at the woman beside her. "The only one who would be able to answer that for sure would be James."

_James._ She'd used his first name. She'd never heard him use his first name. It was jarring, and it felt so vulnerable coming from Natasha. Maggie had so many questions. Why hadn't she told Steve? Did Steve know? Why not say something before now? But Maggie didn't ask, she knew better than to ask that. Frankly, it wasn't any of her business, nor was it Steve's for that matter. But Maggie did know that it would be yet another thing that James Barnes would have to sort out when and if they ever found him.

"I haven't told anyone. It isn't even in my journal." Maggie said slowly.

Natasha nodded, looking up at her, "It's not so black and white, is it anymore?" Her voice and her expression were soft, but Maggie could hear the note of appreciation in her tone.

"No." Maggie shook her head. It wasn't black and white, it hadn't been for a while, but now everything seemed to be in increasingly jarring shades of grey.

Natasha sighed. "He's a murder and a killer, but for that matter, so am I." Natasha paused, taking in a long and steady breath, nothing in her tone and posture, indicating anything about what their conversation might be doing to her. "Even as the Winter Soldier, he was a good man."

The was a long silence as Maggie tried to figure out what to say next. "So what should I do, Nat?" Maggie asked. She'd come to Natasha for guidance, she needed someone to tell her what she should do, but it was quickly becoming apparent that she wasn't going to get a clear cut answer.

"Most don't choose this life, Ramirez, and often the only way out is death. For most of us, it's death. If you see a chance to walk away, a chance for a clean break, take it. Without hesitation. But until then, play things close to your chest, prepare your strategy, and know when it's time to get out."

"And Barnes and Rogers?"

"You'll know when you're ready."

"Will I?" Maggie asked skeptically.

"As I said before, Ramirez, you'd make a good spy if you could learn to keep your mouth shut."

Maggie rolled her eyes, "That's why I became a therapist instead."

Natasha shook her head, rising to her feet, "Come on." She said, extending her hand to Maggie. "We have time to go at least two more rounds before I have to go back to 'Avengers Day Camp,' as you so charitably called it." Natasha grinned, pulling Maggie to her feet.

"How's the gang getting along?"

"They're shaping up."

"Glad to hear it."

"Come on, Ramirez. Less talk, more focus."

Maggie snorted but said nothing as they squared up once again to spar.

Natasha laid her out a few more times before it was time for her to return to the Avengers gym. As they parted, Maggie could feel a deep chasm opening up in her stomach. She was keeping secrets from Sam and Steve, and now they weren't just her secrets but Natasha's as well.

She felt oddly honored that Natasha trusted her not to say anything to Sam and Steve. Then again, Natasha knew that she knew about Barnes and Stark's parents, so perhaps it was a mutually assured destruction type solution to the current predicament. Nevertheless, the fact that Natasha hadn't killed her on the spot meant that she'd reached some kind of relationship status with the other woman. Had Natasha been feeding her all of that information to see if she could or would pick up the various clues found within? Natasha hadn't seemed at all surprised or alarmed by either of the revelations, meaning that she had likely known Maggie would find out long before Maggie did. So it was only logical that Natasha was only giving her what she wanted Maggie to see.

This, of course, left the issue of Sam and Steve. It wasn't so much an issue as a matter of morality with those two. They were soldiers, they didn't think the way that Natasha did, and since Maggie was withholding critical pieces of information from the both of them, to avoid an implosion of the Avengers, it meant that they wouldn't be able to help her if and when things went sideways. Maggie had serious doubts that Natasha would even help her when things went sideways. But that was the point of her survival lessons, that was the point of the training, of the preparation, and of Natasha's warning.

_Play things close to your chest, prepare your strategy, and know when it's time to get out._

It wasn't the best advice she'd received, but it also wasn't the worst. The critical thing was is that it would keep her alive. So the question was to know when she should get out. When was the breaking point? When did she decide that this was it? How would she know? Would she know? Or was it something that she'd have to train her gut to and hope that her instincts served her well?

Maggie was tired. She was ready to walk away. They weren't getting anywhere, the world wasn't as friendly to the avengers anymore, things were looking grim, and she found that she was afraid. She'd seen too much, she knew too much, there were some things now that would likely haunt her for the rest of her life. The images from the bunker in Argentina were enough to scar anyone for life, but she had that and then some.

_But I made Becca a promise to bring her brother home. _

She had made a promise to Becca, and for that matter, a promise in some small part to herself and to Steve. Only now the stakes had changed. This wasn't so she could get her life back, this was so she could walk away alive at all.

_Not so black and white now anymore, is it?_

That was for damn sure.

Maggie wanted to sink to the bottom of the sea and leave all of this behind. Where was that fortress of solitude again? That seemed like a good option right about now. However, since no icy fortress in the arctic nor a jungle getaway in the tropics seemed particularly forthcoming, Maggie decided to return to her apartment and get back to work.

Maggie spent much of the afternoon engrossed in satellite scans over the old soviet block, circling or X-ing out Hydra bases and hot spots of activity. It wasn't anything new, she and Sam had poured over this set of scans a thousand times, but for the sake of double and triple checking, she was going through them again.

She was so focused on her work that she almost didn't hear Steve come into the apartment, and hover in the doorway to her office.

"Mind if I come in?" he asked, his voice low and small.

"Steve?!" Maggie did a double-take as he appeared in the doorway to her office. He looked like absolute hell. He was dressed in a plain white t-shirt and blue jeans, but his hair was mussed, and his eyes look puffy and swollen. She surveyed him, bracing for the bad news, for the calamity, for the tragedy that had somehow befallen the avengers without Maggie noticing. But that wasn't it, wasn't he supposed to be in New York with Becca's kids for the holiday? "Steve, what's going on? What are you doing here? I thought you were going to be with the Proctors for Rosh Hashanah?"

"Wanted to let them celebrate without me since this is the first year without—" He stopped himself. "And anyway, I just got in from D.C."

Maggie nodded, watching as he walked from the door to the couch, sinking down onto it like he or it might break without special care. "I'm afraid I don't have anything new for you." She paused, taking a deep breath, her conversation with Natasha from earlier in the afternoon still weighing heavy on her mind. _If you want out, you're going to have to tell Steve. _She did want out, the only problem was that Sam was wading even further into this, and like it or not she still felt a deep and unyielding loyalty to Sam, and in some small part to Steve. Could she do it? Could she really tell Steve that she was done? Could she tell Steve that his best friend didn't want to be found and that it was just better to give up? Maggie wasn't sure she could, not now and perhaps not ever.

Before she could speak, Steve started again, "Part of Rosh Hashanah is self-reflection and repentance. I wanted to ask your forgiveness and ask for your help."

Maggie felt a lump form in her throat. He wanted to apologize to her? Her? After all that she'd done? With all that, she was hiding from him? It felt wrong. She rose unsteadily to her feet, "Sure Steve, I'm just going to close and lock the door if that's okay, so we're not disturbed." Her voice sounded shrill, almost edging on manic, but if Steve noticed he didn't say anything.

Steve nodded, watching quietly as she moved around the office.

"May I sit next to you?"

Again he nodded, moving over to allow her to sit down beside him. Maggie didn't say anything, watching as Steve turned a compass over and over in his hands.

"I want to apologize for what happened with Becca, it was wrong of me to keep that from you and even worse that I expected you to understand my reasoning." Maggie opened her mouth to speak, but Steve continued. "And I want to apologize for everything that has happened to you because of me and because of Bucky." He paused, collecting his thoughts. "You've done far more than I've had any right to ask of you, and I've not been very vocal about how appreciative I am or very good at acknowledging your sacrifices. I should never have gotten you involved, and I'm sorry."

Maggie said nothing. Did he know? Did he know that she wanted to walk away? Was he giving her permission? She didn't know, but right now that didn't seem to be the appropriate thing to bring up. Instead, she focused on the first part of the apology, the part about Becca. She'd mellowed considerably since March, but she appreciated his apology all the same because it recognized that he'd hurt her, and he was trying to set it right. It was all that she could ask of him, all that she could ask of anyone. "I accept your apology," She paused, "and I would like to offer one of my own. I haven't been a very good or very understanding friend recently, and I am sorry, my behavior toward you was unacceptable, you were hurting and grieving. You had every reason to want to keep sensitive information in as tight a circle as possible. I'm sorry."

He nodded, his head and eyes down, focused on the compass he was turning over and over in his hands.

"You said you needed my help?" Maggie asked as gently as she could. Steve looked so fragile as if the slightest sound might break him.

Steve said nothing. This was familiar, the silence, the long deep silence like he was drawing in a breath and finding the strength to say what He needed to say. "Sam told me your granddad had the same thing Peg..." He paused, took a deep breath to control the tremor in his voice before he charged on. "The same thing Carter has. How'd-how'd you deal with that?"

_Oh Shit. 'I Just got back from D.C.' _He'd been flying back and forth between N.Y. and D.C. since May after the whole Sokovia incident, trying to put out fires. He must've stopped by to see Margaret Carter, and judging by his emotional state, it had not gone well.

"Well." She began slowly, uncertain of how to begin. She clasped both hands in her lap between her knees. "It was hard. I was in college and far away and I couldn't visit him as often as I wanted. When I could—well-he had his good days and his bad days. By the end, he had more bad days than not. That was when it was the most difficult. It was painful. He wouldn't remember me. He normally told me I looked like his granddaughter, sometimes thought I was his daughter, my mother, who had been dead for almost six years at that point." She explained slowly.

"What would you do?" He asked with a sniffle.

"When I was there? Play along. Play the part he needed me to play. It was the only thing I could do for him. Then I would go home and cry. He'd raised me, and near the end, he didn't even know who I was, didn't even know who he was, and what he meant to me." She said. "It was hard to see him like that, and it was hard to make myself go see him, but I did because it's what needed to happen."

Steve nodded. "I'm losing her. She's slipping away. Sometimes she remembers I'm alive. Other times..." He cut himself off, shaking his head. "I don't think I can keep putting her through that. I can't make her live through the realization that I'm alive. That after all that time I'm back. Every time I go, it's harder to justify when she remembers less and less. It was 70 years for her...but for me...and now that Bucky is...back...and with SHIELD. There's so much I want to tell her...so much that I want to ask her and talk about it's just..." He paused, exhaling a shaking breath. It was taking everything he had to hold back tears. "It's just not fair to do that to her."

_Shit._

This situation was nothing like hers. Steve had been gone for seventy years, and for him to show up in the last few years of Carter's life...there was no way for this to resolve itself. "Nothing about that disease is easy or fair or rational, Steve." She paused, chewing her lip. "At some point, you have to ask, how much of this is for your comfort and how much of it is for hers? Learning to let go, before they're actually gone. Grieving for them before they pass away. Playing whatever role they need you to play. That's all you can do for them and for yourself."

"Thanks for that." He said shortly, his head still down. She couldn't see his expression to read it.

"I'm sorry that's not the answer you want to hear." She explained, reaching out hesitantly she put her hand on his shoulder.

"But it's an honest one." He sniffled, stowing the compass in his pocket. "It's the one that I needed to hear from someone I trust."

_Trust. Yeah. _Maggie nodded, a knot twisting in her stomach. _If only you knew Steve._ "Whatever you need, Steve."

She couldn't help but think about the conversation she'd had only hours before with Natasha. Barnes didn't want to be found, but she was too much of a damn coward to tell Steve that herself. Wasn't it more of a mercy to just continue looking? Wasn't she doing the right thing by not voicing her suspicions about Barnes and just plugging along trying to find the guy, futile though it may be?

"What if." He began softly, almost so quietly that Maggie didn't hear him. "What if we never find him. Or worse...he...he doesn't know me. With Becca gone and with Peg...I just...I just want _someone _who knew me as..." He shook his head, turning away from her.

Maggie watched him practically collapse, hunching his shoulders, drawing his legs inward, making himself as small as possible as if he was trying to shed the massive body that made him Captain America and return to being Steve, just Steve.

"We're going to find him, Steve," Maggie said adamantly, drawing her legs up on the couch, she scooted closer to him. "We _are _going to find him, and he's going to remember you." She put her hands on his shoulders. "You have my word." She might be lying, she might think that they were never going to find him, but that didn't matter. Steve needed hope. Needed a reason to keep going, and if it meant that she compromised her integrity for a white lie, then she would do it. _Don't let him forget who he is, beneath all of the Captain America bullshit. Make sure he remembers that there is life beyond all of that waiting for him. _That's what Becca had said. That's what she'd told her the last time they'd spoken.

Maggie put her arms around his shoulders, holding him tight. "I see you. Sam sees you." She murmured practically climbing into his lap. She pulled him into an embrace. "We see you, and so will Bucky. I promise." Steve nodded wordlessly, nearly catatonic, he just fell into her. Maggie stroked his head, running her fingers through his hair as his shoulders shook from the effort of holding back tears.

"It's okay to cry, Steve. It's okay to feel what you're feeling." She whispered as tears started welling in her eyes.

She missed Becca. She missed her grandfather. She missed Riley. She missed Suzanne and Bill and everyone she'd ever loved and lost who'd been a mentor and a friend. They would know what to do. They would know how to make this better, how to heal the hurt that Steve was feeling. She was not enough. Not on her own.

It had been an exhausting year and a half. How much longer would it take for them to find Barnes? How much could they endure? At what point would the costs outweigh any benefit? Maggie didn't know.

Steve's phone beeped, and Maggie clambered off him as he removed it from his pocket and examined the screen. He cleared his throat before answering. "Rogers here."

Maggie moved to the opposite side of the couch to give Steve some space. It was another mission. She could tell as Steve's posture and demeanor changed as he returned to being Captain Rogers, Captain America, the living legend. After a moment, he hung up and looked at her. "I have to go. Sorry." He said, rising to his feet. His face was still blotchy, but that was all that remained of the scene she had just witnessed.

"I'll be here when you get back. Be safe?"

"I'll do my best." He nodded.

There was something unmistakably brave in his expression. Not heroic, not the self-assured image of Captain America with his Howling Commandos that she had seen in the newsreels and the propaganda. That wasn't bravery. It was this hurting man, picking up the shield and charging headfirst into danger, not because he wanted to, but because he knew that it was expected of him. Charging into danger so that others didn't have to.

She nodded and watched as he unlocked the office door and walked out. Maggie exhaled slowly, sinking further into the couch cushions.

Maggie didn't have a choice in this. She knew, Natasha knew, and she was reasonably sure that Steve knew that they weren't going to find Barnes, but Maggie had to try, had to keep fighting and keep going even though it seemed hopeless, it was the only way this could end, it was the only way this was going to end.

* * *

So what did you think? No ONE absolutely no one is having a good time in this chapter, I swear. Poor Mags is being torn approximately five directions, and then Bucky, poor Bucky (what else is there to say).

Can't wait to hear what you think! Happy Reading!


	28. New Years' Update

Author's Note: Marvel owns what it owns, and I own what I own, let's keep it that way shall we? Don't Sue me!

Recommended Listening: I Am A Rock by Simon and Garfunkel, Don't Worry 'Bout Me by Frank Sinatra, Hey You, Pink Floyd, A Million Years Ago by Adele, You'll never Walk Alone by Judy Garland, You'll Never Walk alone by Johnny Cash, Auld Lang Syne by Dougie Maclean

* * *

Ch 28- New Year's Update

It was New Year's Eve. It was the first New Years Eve in a while that he could remember where he was in a place he intended to stay more than a week, or even a month. He'd been in Romania since November. It had initially been a temporary thing, but he found that he liked Romania, the people, the food, the location, the general culture of keeping your nose out of other people's business, by in large.

He'd spent a better part of the day hauling cinderblocks up the twenty flights of stairs to build shelves. They'd also make good weapons if it came to that.

He paused, glancing around at the efficiency apartment. It was a shitty apartment, peeling yellowed wallpaper, water stains, chipped and missing tiles, crumbling plaster, leaky faucets with questionable hot water, and cabinets with doors hung crooked. Yet, he found he was content. It wasn't fancy, but it was the closest to home he'd felt since he'd left Brooklyn in 1942. He'd papered the windows, that had been day one. For both privacy and security. He'd also spent much of the first few days mapping out escape routes, and trajectories from the various floors to the next roof over, should he have to make a quick escape. But then he'd started collecting kitchen items. A pot, knife, bowl, spoon, and cutting board had been his first purchases. He'd thrifted them for basically pennies, but they'd been selected by him. He'd made soup or rather had attempted to make soup.

Then he'd found an old mattress. He'd settled for sleeping on the floor with the sleeping bag. But the mattress would serve well as a shield if need be, and anyway his back was giving him hell because of the prosthesis, so the extra padding, while he slept, was a welcome relief.

Little by little, he'd collected things: plates, bowls, and utensils, a table and chair, a lamp. Each piece making him feel more human, more like a person rather than a fugitive on the run.

Most of it had been salvaged or thrifted. It really was amazing to him what people were willing to throw away, but was ultimately quite beneficial to his ends. He'd been looking for a shelf of some kind when he'd found the pile of discarded cinderblocks and plywood, and he'd figured it would do better than anything else he could find.

He winced. His shoulder and back were twinging and throbbing. He'd overused the arm, and his body was paying the price. But it had been worth it, at least to his mind, building, constructing, creating rather than the alternative. It felt _nice _if such a word could be applied. It was familiar and comforting in a way, which was rare in and of itself.

The late afternoon into the early evening had been occupied with how exactly he wanted to set up the cinderblock shelves, arranging and rearranging them like a child playing with blocks and Lincoln logs. Now with the shelves completed, he had moved on to packing away his go bag in the floorboards by the door to the balcony.

He'd chosen a good day. He couldn't own to having put that much thought into the day or what it would mean, but the streets below were crowded and noisy, and the sound echoed up to his perch high above. People up and down the street and all in the apartment building were celebrating New Years. It was the perfect time for him to rip up floorboards and make more noise than he would otherwise be comfortable making.

Creating a narrow gap in the floorboards to slip his go back into, he then turned to the bag. He had accumulated an impressive array of...well...trash if he was honest, but it was well-intentioned garbage. A leaf or a flower pressed between the pages of his journal, print outs from his research, the Smithsonian brochure, newspaper clippings, receipts with notes scribbled on the back, a small stone from the banks of the Vistula, the pink scrunchies now snagged and ratty, and any other number of odds and ends that he'd collected and stuffed in the bottom of his bag.

Unzipping the largest of the compartments, he grimaced as the zipper caught. Pulling off his left glove with his teeth, he tried to manipulate the fabric and the zipper. The zipper gave way under one of his tugs, and the contents of the bag spilled across the counter and onto the floor.

"Damn it," he muttered crouching down to pick up the papers and journal that had fallen onto the floor.

Picking up the first few pieces of paper, he paused as he flipped over Becca's obituary, the group photo.

It felt like a gut punch, and he sunk the rest of the way to the floor. He hadn't looked at it since the night he'd found out that she'd died, and he had done his best not to think about it much since. But he'd kept it, and tucked it into the pages of his journal. He had carried it with him, though what sort of comfort it was supposed to bring, he didn't know. Perhaps it was carrying a little piece of her, a small reminder of someone who had loved him long before 1945 and now, long after. He surveyed the grainy print out carefully, marking each face, and how they smiled brightly at the camera. Had she known then? Had any of them known that Becca was dying? If they had, none of the faces showed it. They all looked happy and content. Pleased with themselves, all dressed in 1940s attire, a mere echo of the past, but a definite embodiment of the present and everything that he had missed.

He stopped, a face in the crowd catching his eye.

_No. It can't be._ How could he have missed it before?

Riffling through the papers, he'd dropped and then his journal, he removed a single scrap of paper and placed it beside the group photo from the obituary.

It _was_ her. It was Magdalen Ramirez, standing in a family photograph with his sister. She was standing toward the back, near the end of the row, her hand and arm in a cast and sling. She wasn't wearing her hair in the normal braids, but victory rolls as she smiled broadly. It was her.

He exhaled slowly, squeezing his eyes shut. She was dead. Suzanne and Bill, he'd seen it in their eyes. There was the virtual ofrenda the volunteers of Last Chance had constructed for Ramirez. They'd mourned her. He'd mourned her. She was dead. She was dead, and it was his fault.

He opened his eyes again, focusing down on the two photographs. She was dead, yet here she was in Becca's family photograph.

Equal parts of relief and anger washed over him. How could he have been so blind? Why hadn't he realized before that she was alive? He'd mourned for her, carried her around with him as one of the many victims of the Winter Soldier. One of _his_ victims.

_Wilson._ It was the only explanation. Ramirez had listened to him, called Wilson after he'd left, and then Wilson and Rogers had saved her and declared her dead to keep Hydra from coming after her. He glanced down back at the photograph, at the sling she wore. Of course not before Hydra had managed to torture her and burn her house to the ground.

_It just means that's you have one less death on your conscience. _

Somehow, selfishly, this felt worse. Her presence in the photograph didn't just mean that Ramirez was alive, it meant that Ramirez was alive and had known his sister. Not only that but had likely been introduced to his sister after she'd been tortured and declared dead.

How had Rogers managed that one? _"Here's the woman your brother left for dead, why don't you two have a chat?"_

Why introduce them at all? The logical explanation was that Ramirez was helping Rogers track him down. But that didn't explain her presence in the photograph, in a family photograph none the less. It indicated something more than a passing acquaintance, that they had been friendly with one another, or perhaps even friends. What had she told Becca about him? Surely Steve hadn't let this woman break his sister's heart. Certainly Rogers had had more sense than to allow her to tell Becca all of the horrifying, terrible things that he'd done.

_She doesn't know what I am. _That had been one of the few things that he'd found solace in, those days right after he'd found out Becca had passed. She'd died ignorant of what he'd become. Or at least he'd hoped.

He could remember her watching him with those wide and trusting eyes, knowing that he would never lead her astray. Or if he did, he'd be there to get her out of it again. She'd trusted him, wholly, completely, and without hesitation. Now she was gone. Now the only thing that remained was the whispers of what he had been and the realities of what he had become. Had it been so wrong of him to think that perhaps his sister had been spared that? The realities of what he was? Was it wrong of him to have drawn comfort from that fact, only now to have that one consolation, that one glimmer of a silver lining to this whole situation be torn away?

_No. You don't get to think like that. You don't deserve to hope. You don't get a say in how your sister remembers you. You forfeited that right when you decided to go north. When you decided not to go home to her._

It was a choice he had made, and a choice he now had to live with. If Ramirez had told his sister that he'd left her to die at the hands of Hydra, if Steve had told her that he'd nearly killed him that would be the truth, and that's what his sister deserved. That's the only thing he'd left for her to find, the only thing left of him to remember.

"Damn it." He muttered wiping at his face and the tears that streaked his face before turning back down to the photograph.

There she was smiling, like she hadn't her life destroyed, like she hadn't been declared dead, like she wasn't having her picture taken with the sister, with the family of the man who was the cause of all of it. What had she told Becca? What did her presence in the photograph mean about his sister's relationship with Ramirez? What did any of it mean? He didn't know. He could barely stand the thought.

Wordlessly he picked his journal out of the pile of debris and turned to the pages he'd written for her. He'd written down what he'd learned about her, written down what he'd remembered about her, written down what he felt about her. It all felt so personal, and now that he knew she was alive, it felt wrong, invasive, nearly a violation. He moved to rip them out but stopped as he saw the sticky note she'd left initially for him on the first page. _'Easier to write things out than keep them all in your head. Thanks again for your help with the roof. ~Maggie.'_

The yellow post-it was dirty and showing signs of wear, the glue that secured the sticky note to the page was hardly adhesive anymore. Her handwriting smeared by dirt, grime, and exposure was still visible. This was something he didn't want to keep in his head, it was better that they remained on the page, frozen forever in ink. Picking up a pen, he scratched out the date of birth and date of death, scrawling 'Status: Alive' in the margins. Tucking the obituaries back in their respective places he shut the journal and leaned back against the counter with a heavy sigh.

Why was this affecting him like this? What did it matter that she wasn't dead? What was one life weighed against the scores of others he'd taken as the winter soldier? Hadn't he destroyed her life anyway? He couldn't help but think of the online ofrenda, and the distraught faces of Bill and Suzanne on the news. Hadn't he destroyed the lives of the people of Last Chance Ranch?

_It doesn't matter. _

Stuffing the journal in the backpack, he placed the bag in the hole he'd created in the floor and replaced the board on top. He sat silently on the floor, watching the fireworks through the papered windows, wincing at the sound of rocket fire.

* * *

Sam, Steve, and Nat were on a training exercise with the rest of the Avengers. Just as well, she didn't much feel like celebrating. That really had been the mood since Becca had passed. They hadn't celebrated Steve's birthday, Maggie hadn't bothered with putting up the ofrenda, and certainly hadn't done anything for her birthday. She'd made something of an effort for thanksgiving, but all the winter holidays had been a wash, even though there had been some feeble attempt at Hanukah, considering there were now several practicing and non-practicing Jewish people residing in the Avengers compound. However, training and missions had completely ruined all plans.

For her part, Maggie had been keeping busy, doing her work with Steve and Sam to track down Barnes with absolutely no success. She'd also been working with Natasha learning, preparing, and waiting for what felt like was inevitable. It was part of the reason she was packing her go-bag.

Passports and other identification, cash, water bottle and water purifying system, gloves, hat, lightweight jacket, first aid kid, hygienic products, knife, multi-tool, machete, flashlight with spare batteries, burner phone, duct tape, paracord, amongst other things. She'd also packed away her photos, her grandmother's our lady of Guadalupe statue, her grandfather's rosary, and Riley's dog tags.

Maggie paused, sitting down at the desk, started rifling through her papers. Her journals were stacked neatly in a pile and would be going in the go-bag as well. Reaching into a drawer, she stopped, withdrawing a worn envelope, still sealed.

_To Magdalene Ramirez_, was written in Becca's careful scrawl on the front.

"Fuck" Maggie breathed, setting the envelope reverentially on the desk in front of her, combing her hands through her hair. She'd completely forgotten about the envelope that Steve had given her from James Martinez-Proctor. Between Argentina and moving from the tower to the compound on top of everything else, it had been shoved into a box and left for later.

_What could it be?_ Maggie felt her stomach twist and her heartache. Even her throat felt tight as tears started to form preemptively.

Picking up the envelope, she broke the seal and removed the contents: a handwritten note and a flash drive. Unfolding the letter, Maggie found that it was from Becca's son, James. It read:

Dear Magdalene,

Mother wanted me to give you the jump drive. It has some photos and things she thought you might like. I also wanted to personally say thank you. You got our mom talking about her past and about our family in a way we could never have imagined possible. She spoke fondly of you and the friendship you shared, and it gave her tremendous comfort and strength in her final days.

You will always be a part of our family and will always be welcome here. Thank you again for everything you did for her and the entirety of our family. We are forever in your debt.

Yours,

James

Maggie put aside the note, her hands shaking she plugged the flash drive into the computer and waited for the folder to load. Opening the driver, a video titled "Play me First" popped up.

She clicked on it, and Becca appeared on the screen.

"Hello, Maggie dearest," Becca began, and Maggie could feel her throat start to seize with tears. "It's strange to think that you'll be watching this after I've gone, weeks, months, maybe even years after the fact. I hope you don't wait that long, but I do hope that this finds you in a moment of doubt or uncertainty and that I can provide you with the comfort and support you seek." Becca paused, "I'd like you to close your eyes, Maggie, and imagine that you're sitting on my couch in my apartment in Brooklyn. Go ahead, close your eyes." Maggie did as instructed, wiping at the tears that had started to stream.

"All right." Becca continued. "What's there to be said that hasn't been said before? We've passed a many wonderful hours together, talking, and laughing, and I think grieving. I suppose first and foremost, I should acknowledge the enormous pressure you've put on yourself, on both my behalf and on Steven's. I know you feel responsible for finding my brother or not finding my brother. I appreciate the time and effort and energy that you've spent. But I have to tell you, if you haven't figured out for yourself by now, no one could ever make Bucky do anything he didn't want to do. He's stubborn, the two of you have that in common. Don't beat yourself up, he'll find his way home in his own time, you both will. You don't have to carry this weight, this burden that you've placed on yourself. Carry it only as far as you want but not an inch further. You don't have an obligation to Steve or to me or to anyone to do anything you don't want to do. Your determination, your strength, your capacity for love, and kindness in a world that should have made you hard and bitter, it's part of what makes you who you are. But Magdalene, dearest, you have to learn to let go. You have to let these old wounds heal. It's not a betrayal, it's not forgetting it's allowing yourself not to be trapped in your past. It's allowing yourself to live. You have so much left to live for, don't waste it waiting for someone to come home.

I love you, my dear. I know you're hurting, but someday it won't as much, and I hope you can look back at our time fondly and remember the good times. Take care, good luck. Love you very much...goodbye."

The recording ended, and Maggie opened her eyes as she exhaled a slow, shuddering breath. Tears slipped down her cheeks, the screen blurring in and out of focus as she tried to look at the contents of the files.

There were photos, scanned photos from the family album, the picture of Becca and Bucky on the front steps amongst other family portraits and candids of Steve and Bucky and Becca together. There were also digital photographs that had been taken throughout her and Becca's time together: the 4th of July family picnic, during Maggie's birthday celebration, and Hanukkah. She could see it now, see the slow but steady decline in Becca's health in the photographs. How had she not seen it then? She'd been too close, unwilling to see what was happening right in front of her.

Sniffling, and wiping at the tears Maggie selected a handful, printing them out on the photo printer, she shoved them into the corresponding pages, yanking the flash drive and placing it in her backpack along with her journals. She couldn't help but think of Becca's words.

_Carry it only as far as you want but not an inch further...you have to learn to let go._

Let go. Learn to let go. There would come an inevitable point where she would know it was time, time to let go, time to run away when she'd been fighting so valiantly to bring Barnes home. But she didn't want to let go, she was afraid to let go. Could she do it? Could she let go of what had consumed her life for the past two years and just disappear into the night like a wisp of smoke? Maggie didn't know, but then again, she might not have a choice. Her very survival might depend on it. Wasn't that why she was here, packing a go-bag by herself New Year's Eve? Wasn't that why she'd spent the last six months learning survival techniques and training?

Fundamentally it didn't matter. It didn't matter if she _could_ do something, it was a matter of what she was _willing_ to do to survive, the world wasn't going to give her a choice.

Maggie wrapped her self up in her cardigan, head on her knees, squeezing her Captain America stress doll. Her left hand ached, her heart ached, her whole body ached, and she just sat in her desk chair, as tears slipped down her face and she hummed Auld Lang Syne to herself. There were no fireworks, no glasses of champagne, no parties, no kisses at midnight. Just her, here in this office, in this place that she couldn't entirely call home or work. She sighed as the clock chimed midnight, rising to her feet she set the stress doll down and turned off the desk lamp. Picking up her go-bag, she slipped it into the front hall closet before wandering back to her bedroom. Sliding between the cool sheets in the cold, dark room, she stared at the ceiling, feeling too awake to sleep and too emotionally exhausted to think about doing anything else for the rest of the night. She was happy to see 2015 go, and she could only hope and pray that whatever 2016 was to bring, it would be better than all of this.

* * *

A/N: SO BUCKY KNOW THAT MAGS IS ALIVE! This was such a huge plot point. Can I share a secret? Originally I wasn't going to have him figure it out either much much later (or at the same time he found out about Becca), but this felt so much better when I wrote it out this way. (And a bit nicer to poor Bucky). Also, OH MY GOD. I honestly don't know what I'd do if I were in Mag's place with that video letter from Becca. Anyway, now that I'm done screaming, I'd love to hear what y'all think!


	29. The Deep Breath Before the Plunge

Author's Note: Marvel owns what it owns, and I own what I own, let's keep it that way shall we? Don't Sue me!

Recommended Listening: Life is a Highway by Rascal Flats, Hotel California by The Eagles, You Ain't Seen Nothing Yet Bachman-Turner Overdrive, The Seashores of Mexico by George Strait, Wide Open Spaces by the Dixie Chicks, The Unforgiven by Metallica, Run Boy Run by Woodkid

* * *

Ch 29- The Deep Breath Before the Plunge

"Life is a highway. I wanna ride it all night long!" Maggie sang-shouted over the rush of the wind and the nearly maxed out volume on her little car's even smaller stereo.

It was cliche, but she didn't care. The sun was warm on her skin, the blue skies stretched on for miles in front of her on the open road, the wind whipped around her, blowing her hair in her face and around the car, and she was winding her way through small-town U.S.A. She was on her way to the McDonald's Observatory in Fort Davis, Texas.

Adjusting her sunglasses, she started humming along to Wide Open Spaces, glancing out at the road before her.

She smiled. She wanted to laugh. A sensation of captured air in her chest, waiting to be expelled welled and grew inside until she felt like she was going to explode. Her smile broadened into an even wider grin. She hadn't felt this good in months, probably even years. She wasn't sure if it was the weather, the change in scenery, or just the feeling of absolute freedom out on the open road.

This had been a good choice, and a long time coming.

Sometime in late February or early March, Maggie had announced she was going on vacation.

_"I'm tired. I'm done, I need a break from this place. I just need to be out in the open air." _She'd told Sam and Steve at the end of yet another one of their "Sad briefings." She needed a change of pace, she needed to step away from it all, and that wasn't going to happen if she was trapped in the Compound.

_"What are you thinking?" _Sam had inquired, although Maggie was reasonably sure it was only with half-hearted interest.

_"I wanna take a road trip down to the Davis Mountains. And I want all three of us to go." _

_"_ _A road trip, from New York to Texas in that rickety old Honda Accord you purchased last month? Really Mags?" _

Sam had been skeptical. The idea of being trapped in the car with anyone for that long induced sweating and the shakes in Sam, but Maggie had been persistent.

_"Come on, Falcon, it'll be an adventure, and it'll be a nice break where no one will be shooting at us."_

Ultimately, Steve had been the deciding vote. _"It'll be a nice change of pace. We should clear our schedule for a few weeks away from all of this."_

So it had been decided, they'd go sometime in the second half of June. Just before it got too hot down in Texas, and so they'd be able to spend Steve's birthday together.

Then Lagos, Nigeria, had happened. She'd heard about it on the news long before they'd staggered single file into her office, collapsing on the grubby couch. Maggie hadn't said anything, and instead had locked the doors, and climbing onto the couch between them, allowed them to rest their heads on her shoulders, waiting for whatever was to come. They'd gone looking for Barnes, and they'd found Brock Rumlow. Not precisely the trade they'd hoped for, never mind the lives lost due to the bomb vest Rumlow had been wearing.

The media firestorm had been swift, terrible, and unrelenting. For good reason, but all the same, it seemed that it was never-ending. Ever since Sokovia, things had been different, and it didn't appear the Nigeria situation was going away any time soon. The UN was getting involved, and it looked like the Avengers weren't going to make it this time, not without serious intervention.

Maggie's suspicions had been confirmed when Sam and Steve had once again slunk into her office and sunk on the couch. _"I don't think it would be a good idea for us to stray too far from the compound." _Steve had finally announced after a good thirty minutes of dead silence.

_"We can't afford to be off the grid that long."_ Sam had added.

_"So should we cancel, or should I just go alone?" _Maggie had ventured.

_"You should go, we can even fly you down in one of Stark's planes if you want."_ Sam had offered.

_"Kinda defeats the purpose of a road trip, Sammie. I'll drive, my phone has GPS, and I'll schedule check-ins." _

There had been a lot of long, very stern conversations, but ultimately Sam had relented with Steve's blessing, and she'd packed and headed out on the road by herself, with her time table and scheduled check-ins. Now she'd been on the road for about four days and had enjoyed every minute of it. Eating and sleeping when she wanted to, pulling over to check out stupid roadside attractions. She'd gone through Ohio to see the Rock 'n Roll Hall of Fame and was disappointed that she didn't have any plausible way to map her route out to see the World's Largest Ball of Twine. _Next time though, definitely going through Kansas and I'm taking Sam and Steve with me, damn it._

"You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave." She sang along with the Eagles, even mimicking the sound of the guitar solo.

_Boy isn't that the truth._

Since she'd headed out on the road, she'd tried not to think about work, about Barnes, about the Avengers, about all of the stuff that had dragged her into a mess so big and massive and complicated that spending time driving around in a janky 1997 Honda Accord counted as a vacation and well deserved time off.

The song ended, and she pulled off at a rest stop to fill up with gas. Pupping gas, she looked through her phone and found she had a text message from Sam. 'call me when you get the chance.'

Her stomach turned and returning the gasoline nozzle to the pump, she typed in Sam's number and put the phone up to her ear.

"Hey, Mags," Sam answered. His voice was low and even. Nothing to indicate that there was anything wrong, yet her mind was still reeling, as she waited for the shoe to drop.

"Hey, Sammie."

"How's the drive going?"

"Good. In Oklahoma, I have a few more hours before I get to Tulsa." She answered, her eyes scanning the gas station, looking for anything out of the ordinary, anything that might mean trouble. Her senses were on high alert. Maggie paused, waiting for Sam to say something, anything that might prove her wrong. "What's happened, Sam?" She asked. There was no response. "Sam?"

"I'm here." He said slowly. It was a heavy sound, weighted with everything he was getting ready to say. It was the same tone he'd used the first time they'd spoken after Riley was KIA, and Maggie could feel herself holding her breath, waiting for the world to collapse around her.

"What's going on, Sam?"

"Things are looking bad, Mags. Sokovia is biting everyone in the ass. For good reason, but uh," He paused. "Yeah, until we figure this thing out, you might wanna make yourself scarce, stay in Texas for a little while. When we get back from England, I'll get ahold of you."

"England?" Her mind raced.

"Carter passed."

Maggie's heart stopped altogether. "Oh shit." She breathed, sinking onto the hood of the car.

"Yeah."

"How's Steve?"

"As you might expect. Don't worry. I won't let him get into anything too stupid." Sam said as if that was supposed to reassure her.

"Famous last words." Maggie shook her head. "How are you holding up?"

"Just trying to take care of the people I love." He replied.

It was a cop-out bullshit answer, and they both knew it, but as Maggie wasn't physically present to help out, she wasn't in any sort of position to lecture him about anything without it devolving into hypocrisy. "Okay." She began slowly, measuring her words. "Take care of yourself, Sam. Steve's your partner, but your health and happiness are important too." Maggie said as gently as she could.

"I know, Mags." Sam sounded exhausted.

Maggie could feel her chest constricting. She wanted to hug Sam. She wanted to give them both hugs. All of the excitement and joy and happiness she'd been feeling had seeped away, leaving a hollow pit in its wake. Guilt surged into the chasm, filling her up, threatening to consume her entirely. She should be there. She should be there with them to help them through this. She should never have gone away. _What could you do? You're not an Avenger, you're not a lawyer, and you certainly don't have any powers over life, death, or Alzheimer's. _

"You still with me?" Sam's voice called out.

"Yeah, sorry." She stammered, "I'll let you go and text you when I get to my checkpoint."

"I'll be on my way to England by then, but will still have access to text messages."

"Sounds good." She paused, a lump in her throat. "Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"Be careful, okay?"

"I'll be alright, Mags. We'll talk soon. I gotta go."

"Alright, Bye."

Maggie hung up and closed her eyes, squeezing the bridge of her nose. She could feel her heart thudding in her chest, even as she tried to keep her mind from racing. _Make yourself scarce._

Rising to her feet, she shoved her phone into her back pocket before walking around to the back of the car. She popped the trunk and peered inside. There was the duffle that Romanoff had given her for her birthday, packed with her clothes and toiletries and other incidentals, beside it was her go-bag.

_"You all packed and ready to go?" _Romanoff had snuck up behind her while she was loading her stuff into the car.

_"Yeah, I think so?" _Maggie had responded, once she'd recovered from Natasha's sudden appearance in the garage.

Nat had inspected the contents of Maggie's trunk with her critical and ever vigilant gaze. _"Prepared for anything, huh?"_

_"Never know what might happen out there." _Maggie had paused dramatically before a wide smile had crossed her face. _"I'll even make sure my doors are locked."_

_"You are learning." _Nat had chuckled, pulling her into an embrace. _"Be safe out there, and if you need anything, you know how to get ahold of me, Steve, and Sam."_

Maggie had thought it had been kinda stupid at the time, bringing her go-bag, but now she was wondering if it was coincidence or clairvoyance that had compelled her. _It's the training._

_Make yourself scarce._

That's what Sam had said. What had he meant? Did he know what sort of alarms that would set off in her brain? She wasn't an idiot. Something was going on, more than Carter's death. If Sam weren't concerned, he wouldn't've told her. If Sam wasn't worried, he would've been more direct than that. Sam hadn't been able to talk freely, which meant they were being monitored, and that the person listening in wasn't entirely friendly.

So Maggie had a decision to make. It didn't matter what Sam's intentions or double meanings were, she was alone out here, in the middle of nowhere, and she was going to have to make a judgment call, no one else could make it for her, not Sam, not Steve, not Nat.

_No one around to get you out of the crossfire this time._

It was a vicious little voice, but a good and sharp reminder. Something was going on that had shaken Sam up. That was more than enough reason to be on high alert. If the Avengers were involved, if the UN was involved, then Maggie had more than enough reason to want to get out from under big brother's eye. She had valuable information, sensitive information, and she wasn't going to be left holding the bag, she wasn't going to be caught in the crossfire, she had come too far to be the victim this time.

_Goddamn it, and I'd been having such a good time._

Maggie shut the trunk of her car, and walked back around to the driver side, climbing in, she took several deep breaths, trying to calm the pounding of her heart.

_One thing at a time. One step at a time. Don't run, walk._

Turning over the ignition, Maggie knew she had to make a decision. She didn't want to. It meant that whatever her choice, she'd have to follow through and live with the consequences.

_Am I jumping the gun on this?_

Things hadn't gone sideways yet, but if she waited much longer, it was likely her hand was going to get forced. The mere implication was enough to put her on edge.

_Listen to your gut, but then remember your training._

Sam, Steve, and Nat could take care of themselves, and she was going to do the same. The wheels and cogs were already turning as each step of the plan she had started forming began to click into place.

George Strait started to play in the background as she drove away from the gas station, and Maggie knew what she had to do.

_Carry it as far as you need to, but not an inch further. _

She'd done everything she could to rectify what had happened back in April 2014. She'd done everything she could to bring Barnes home. She'd done everything she could so that she might be able to go home. She'd dedicated her energy, her time, and her life for the past two years chasing that end. Now she could go no further.

Maggie arrived in Tulsa a quarter to seven, and by lunchtime the following day, she was off the grid.

* * *

The morning air was cool and damp, and the fog and the dew still hung in the air as he walked the streets, winding his way through the open market. There were only a few vendors out this early, but he knew them well. He bought all of his produce from them, and they'd started to recognize him, asking him how he was doing and giving him good deals on their most recent harvest.

Today, his usual vendor had a good selection of Plums. "How are they? Are they good?" He asked, in the easy Romanian he'd acquired since he'd settled here.

"They're very good. Best we've had in a while." The stall owner responded, responded as he picked up a few, and giving them a gentle squeeze to test for their ripeness.

It had been forever since he'd had plums, they'd been a special treat back when he was growing up, along with oranges and other fresh fruit. He liked the tartness of plums, and couldn't wait to get them back to the apartment, washed, and then eaten.

"Give me six, thank you." He offered what he hoped was a kind, non-threatening smile as he paid and collected his small purchase.

It had become a sort of habit, wake up early, collect groceries and necessary items for the day, toiletries, batteries, newspapers, extra pens, and papers, amongst other things, before he returned home to read, write, or cook. He didn't have a job, he didn't need one quite yet, but had thought about getting one, just to be out amongst people. It wasn't that he was comfortable around people, not really, but being out and about amongst others going on about their lives, made him feel normal. Being out of the apartment also meant that he was out of his head. He tensed at the sound of sirens in the distance.

Well, a_lmost _out of his head.

He waited, waited for the world to come crashing down, for the screech of tires, for the blaring roar of sirens, for the sound of armed men drawing their weapons on him.

His heart pounded at the sound grew closer, his whole body coiled and ready to fight off whatever might come.

The emergency vehicle passed, and he exhaled, trying to relieve some of the tension that had collected in his chest. He hated that. How long would it take for him to lose that edge, lose that instinctive reaction at the barest indication of trouble?

_It's what's kept you alive this long. It's what's going to keep you alive._

Then he saw it, across the street, the man at the newsstand was starring from his post, watching with active interest.

_It's your imagination._

He looked away, waiting for the moment to pass, for the man's eyes to wander away to something or someone else. Glancing back at the newsstand, he found the man was still watching him, eyes boring into him.

_That's not good._

Propelled by equal parts curiosity and terror, he crossed the street and made for the newsstand. The noise of the busy street roaring behind him. Noticing his approach, the man abandoned the booth, practically tripping on himself as he ran into the crowd and disappeared from view.

_That's really not good._

But he was already there. He needed to know what was going on, needed to know what had caused such a reaction. Picking up the newspaper the man left behind his stomach dropped.

"Winter Soldier Căutat Pentru Bombardmentul Din Viena." _The Winter Soldier Wanted for Bombing in Vienna. _

Everything fell away, the city, the sounds, the thoughts of what he was going to do for the rest of the day. Everything normal, everything human that had occupied him only moments before, dropped away as the words, and the meaning behind them sunk in.

_Oh fuck._

It was his first and gut reaction, and it did a damn good job of explaining his thoughts on the matter.

_But it wasn't me._

That was the second thought that occurred. If he had some part in it, sure, yeah, he deserved to be on the front page, but he hadn't. He hadn't been involved. He'd been here, buying fresh apricots and pears, making stew, and writing in his journal. It was a setup. He'd been framed. But what did that matter? Who would believe him?

_Steve._

Would Steve believe him? It didn't matter. What could Steve do? He wasn't an Avenger any more. That had been all over the news, he and Wilson, they'd retired rather than sign the Sokovia Accords.

_I have to move now._

The panic, disbelief, and terror reduced to a faint hum, as training and instincts took over. The truth of the thing didn't matter, and wouldn't matter if he didn't get out of here now. If the man at the newsstand was any indication, he didn't have long. Hours to minutes, if he was lucky. He'd be lucky to get to his apartment and to his go-bag before some special ops team dropped on his head.

_My go-bag and my journal. _Everything else in the apartment was secondary.

He dropped his plums in the lap of a homeless man, begging for change, and continued without stopping.

Mounting the twenty flights of stairs, he kept his breathing regulated, his ears open, and his eyes swept this way and that looking for any oncoming threats.

_Walk, don't run. Walk, don't run._

He stopped as he reached his apartment. The door. It was open.

So he'd had less time than he'd thought. It was Steve. No Spec Ops team would be that sloppy. How had he managed it? Who had tipped him off?

_You have to run. You have to go now. _

The only way was forward. The only way he was going to get out of this was if he had his bag, and that was in the apartment, past Steve. He slipped inside, shutting and locking the door behind him without a sound, all of the locks and hinges well oiled and maintained for this very reason.

Holding his breath, he walked silently toward the other person occupying his apartment. He'd mastered the art of moving silently and quietly, which made Steve, by comparison, sound like nothing short of an entire platoon of heavily armed men. Steve had always been louder than Bucky. From their childhood, when Steve would be wheezing or coughing because of a combination of asthma and walking pneumonia, to his inability to properly regulate the level of his voice in the field, he'd always been noisy. Nothing, it appeared, had changed.

_Bucky, you've known me your whole life._

Nothing had been disturbed, the room hadn't been ransacked, and Steve moved gingerly as he surveyed his surroundings, as if afraid to disturb anything.

It looked like their first apartment. He hadn't done it by design, but one day he'd looked around and realized that this was the closest to home he'd ever come again. He hadn't even realized he'd been doing it. Did Steve recognize it? Did he know that's what he had done?

_Your name is James Buchanan Barnes._

The man's shoulders were broader than he remembered. Then again, he'd always remembered the Steve before the serum before the world had taken him and made something else of him before the world had transformed them both into something totally beyond their control.

Steve went to the fridge where he'd carelessly left his journal this morning between breakfast and doing a quick clean up of the small, grubby apartment.

What was Steve expecting to find? What would he expect to find if he was standing in Steve's place? He didn't know. Any second he would turn around, and they would be face to face for the first time in over two years. He'd done his best to stay away, to try to protect Steve from what he was, from what he'd become, yet there he was, standing in his kitchen.

_I'm not going to fight you. You're my friend._

He wanted to tell him to run, wanted to tell him to get away, to get out of here, to get out of his life before the shit storm that was about to hit, finally arrived. Would Steve see it that way? Or was Steve ready to fight him, prepared to capture him, detain him, and bring him in for his alleged involvement in the UN bombings? Was that his purpose? Was that why he was here?

He didn't know. He didn't have time to find out. He had to go, had to leave, had to get as far away from this place before _anyone_ could get their hands on him.

Steve picked up the journal and cracked it open.

He knew. Bucky, the Winter Soldier, James, James Buchanan Barnes, knew that he wasn't going to get that chance. His back was against the wall with only two choices, run or fight, and he'd been running for over two years now. So the only option open to him, the only option left to take, was to fight. It was going to end in a fight. It always ended in a fight.

He'd have to fight Steve, have to fight the Avengers, and whatever was going to come after him.

He didn't have a choice. He'd never had a choice. Did Steve think that by coming here, he'd be able to convince him that he'd get a fair shot, that he'd get heard out, that he wouldn't be locked away or worse? That he _deserved_ anything other than being shot on sight? This was going to end in a fight. It was the inevitable and unavoidable conclusion to his story. He'd known that two years ago when he'd left Last Chance Ranch, and he knew that now.

So what choice was left to him? Now that he was committed to the fight before him? Would he be reduced to what Hydra had made of him? Would he maim and kill to advance his own aim? Did he have a choice?

_No one wakes up a villain or a hero, a good parent, or a bad parent, a good person or a bad person. It's the choices we make that define us, each and every day. _

That's what she'd said, Ramirez. He hadn't thought about her, about the obituary, about her and his sister, about any of it, in months, and now, here she was, back again in his head with this idea of choice. He didn't want this life, he'd never wanted this life, but he didn't have a choice. But, it didn't mean he had to choose to be what Hydra had made him.

He would make it out of this, and he wouldn't resort to being the Winter Soldier to do it. He didn't want to kill anyone. He didn't want to hurt Steve. He didn't want to be the person that everyone, the world, and probably even Steve thought he was.

It was a choice, and ultimately it was the only one he had.

Steve paused in his evaluation of the apartment, a voice buzzing in his earpiece. "Heads up Cap' German special forces approaching from the south."

"Understood," Steve said. Closing the journal, he stopped as if he'd heard something. Then, he started to turn.

Whatever he'd wanted, whatever he'd intended, it didn't matter he'd have to stand and face it. Bucky Barnes was out of time.

* * *

BUCKY! MAGS! My peeps not going to lie when I was finishing the last portion of this chapter I got the writer shakes. I'm so excited to be able to share this with you! This is one of those chapters that underwent so many tweaks. I hope you guys liked the end result.

Thanks for sticking with me through this! Happy Reading!


	30. What It Means To Disappear

Author's Note: Marvel owns what it owns, and I own what I own, let's keep it that way shall we? Don't Sue me!

Recommended Listening: Ramble On by Led Zeppelin, Ain't No Rest for the Wicked by Cage the Elephant, The Lonely Shephard by Gheorghe Zamfir, Simple Man by Lynyrd Skynyrd, Running with the Devil by Van Halen

* * *

Ch 30- What Does it Mean to Disappear?

She'd found it by accident. It was a little garage, more of a metal shack than a mechanic's shop, which was precisely the kind of place that would deal in cash and not ask too many questions. It was the type of place Maggie needed.

The air was dry and hot, the only relief from the oppressive heat boring down on her was the shade of the little building, and the slight breeze offered by the creaking oscillating fan.

Once upon a time she would've been almost acclimated to this type of weather, but after nearly a decade of living north of the Mason-Dixon line, sweat was pouring off her. That, coupled with everything else going on, she probably wasn't fitting in as well as she wanted. Regardless, she was too far in to this to chicken out now, she'd have to see this through to the end, and whatever that meant.

Maggie had been off the grid for over 72 hours. She'd made her way to the border the moment that Sam had told her to lay low. She'd switched out plates, and had crossed the border under an alias. Now she was trying to get rid of her vehicle so that she could disappear entirely. _Don't run, walk. _That's what Natasha had always told her, and now it could mean life or death.

Adjusting her backpack and the straps of her tank top, her ears strained to listen to the news report on the radio, hungry for news of Steve, Sam, and the others.

_"The manhunt continues for UN bombing suspect James Barnes, who escaped UN custody two days ago. The search for Barnes's accomplice Steven Roger, formerly of the Avengers, also continues. Anyone with any information has been encouraged to come forward. A reward is being offered for any information that leads to the capture of Barnes or Rogers."_

So they'd found Barnes. Well, _she _hadn't found shit. The end of a two and a half year manhunt where she'd risked life, limb, and sanity, and they'd managed to flush the bastard out of hiding with a bombing. Maggie found that she couldn't quite shake the bitter taste in her mouth. It really all had been for nothing.

_Figures._

Still, it didn't change what had happened, or the fact that now she had to lay low until she could be sure the U.S. Government or anyone else wasn't interested in what she knew. Better to be safe than sorry, particularly when there were Super Soldiers and a very pissed international community involved.

"Can you believe this shit? A 24-hour news cycle and the best they can come up with is this fucking bullshit with the UN." The garage owner swore in Spanish, pulling Maggie's attention away from the radio.

"Yeah. It's fucked," She agreed, turning to focus her attention on the mechanic and apparent owner of the establishment approached the counter where she'd been waiting. He was a Mexican man of slight build and stature in a dirty grease smeared jumpsuit. Was he an honest man? She didn't know, but he certainly looked like someone willing to make a shady deal with a woman who was all alone.

He gave her an appraising look. The kind car mechanics give you when they're about to tell you that they can fix it, but it's going to cost you, which was, in general, not good news for her.

"So, what are you gonna give me for the car?" Maggie asked brightly before he could say anything.

This was the last thing she had to do before she could disappear entirely. It was the most important thing, and it could be a significant stumbling block if not handled appropriately. To say that she was a little anxious would be understating this.

"Best I can do is 9,200."

"Pesos?" Maggie raised an eyebrow.

"Pesos." The man confirmed, his expression grim.

That was about 500 USD. He was intentionally lowballing her. But that was always the case, wasn't it? There were two options, take the offer or walk. She could always haggle, but that might attract the wrong type of attention. Still, she needed the money, and anything extra would be a big help. Maggie put her elbows on the counter and leaned forward, allowing her tank top to slide and stretch strategically. "Come on now." She smiled wryly, "You know it's worth double that." She paused, making prolonged eye contact, "But I understand you're doing me a favor." She stood back upright. It had been a long while since she'd tried anything remotely approaching flirting in Spanish, so it felt awkward, but looking at the garage owner's face, it appeared to be working.

Clearing his throat, he glanced around before scratching out a number out on a scrap of paper before shoving it across the grimy countertop to her.

"Cash?" She glanced up at him with a raised eyebrow.

"Of course."

Maggie paused, making a show of mulling over her options. She was going to take the cash, she needed the money, but it was always a good move to at least look like you were giving it a little bit of thought. Besides, if she seemed too eager, she'd be memorable, and that was really the last thing she needed.

_Be the little grey man. Be able to get on and off the elevator, in and out of a location without anyone ever noticing you. _

"We have a deal."

He nodded, "I have to get it out of the safe."

"Of course. Of course, take your time." She said, backing away from the counter.

The man disappeared into a little back room, and Maggie returned her focus to the radio. It had moved onto something else, but she still listened, hoping, perhaps that by focusing all of her energy on the radio, it might give her the answers she was looking for.

Namely, what was going on with Sam and Natasha. The manhunt was on for James Barnes and Steven Rogers, and immediately after the bombing, Sam had been mentioned as well, but now, Sam had disappeared from any news reports or mentions. Likewise, Natasha hadn't been seen or discussed in the news since just after the bombing.

Maggie wanted to reach out to them, make sure they were okay, let them know that she was safe, for the moment, but she couldn't. They didn't know where she was, and she didn't know where they were. It was the best possible arrangement for everyone.

This was what it meant to disappear. The lack of connection, the not knowing, the feeling that she was completely separate from the world around her, and not a part of any community or family. She had been gone a long time, so she knew disappearing was safe, but it was also lonely. Maggie knew how to be lonely, she'd been lonely a lot over the past four years, since Riley's death, and almost more so when she'd come into the hunt for Bucky Barnes. Surrounded by people but lonely. Now not only was she lonely, but she was alone, without another soul in the world.

However, lonely as she was, she'd rather be alone than in a government cell, or worse. Like it or not, this was the better option.

The mechanic returned from the little room and counted out the cash. Nodding satisfactorily, Maggie slid the keys and title across the counter toward him and collected the bills. "Thank you very much." She said.

"You know, Miss, I wouldn't normally ask." The mechanic's voice stopped her before she could turn to go. "But you're not in any sort of trouble, are you?"

Was it that obvious? She probably looked like a deer in headlights, all things being what they were. "Ex-husband's car. Couldn't stand looking at it, but knew couldn't get much in re-sale." She smiled. "Thanks again."

Turning, she walked from the chop shop, and into the bustling streets. She turned a couple corners, and then she disappeared from view and into the crowds without a trace.

* * *

Bucky focused on the massive floor to ceiling windows, to the glittering vibrainium mines that spread out before them, sparkling like the night sky, and humming with the same energy and purpose of an anthill. His eyes searched the scene for a sense of order, some idea of how the people and machines knew what they were doing. It was all beyond him.

He glanced over at the Wakandan technician dressed in white, who was working diligently on his left side. Had he been feeling up to it, he would've asked the man for further explanation of the scene going on just outside the windows. Instead, he just kept his mouth shut, his jaw clenched.

It wasn't just the mines that were humming with energy, but the entirety of the Wakandan science and research division was filled with activity, led of course by the Princess Shuri. They had been nothing but perfectly polite, but he could tell they were all wary of him. He couldn't exactly blame them, with everything that had happened over the last few days.

"Buck?" He looked over at Steve, who had reemerged in the lab after being led away by several of the Wakandan attendants to shower and change. He was wearing civvies but looked just as tightly wound up as he had when they'd first laid eyes on one another back in his apartment in Bucharest.

_It always ends in a fight. _He wished he'd been wrong. He really wished he'd been wrong, but now none of that mattered. The other Winter Soldiers were dead, the real mastermind of the UN bombings was in custody, the Avengers had dissolved, and he was sitting in Wakanda through the generosity and good graces of King T'Challa and the Wakandan people.

Bucky winced as the technician clipped away more of what remained of the Winter Solider prosthesis, working to get it down to the attachment mechanisms and joint.

"You okay?" Steve asked, brows furrowed, concern coming off him in waves.

"The sound." He answered shortly. Thankful that Steve couldn't see his right hand, which was gripping the examination table so hard his knuckles were a pearly white.

They weren't hurting him, but the sensation buzzing in his spine was telling him something was wrong with the prosthesis. _It's missing, you useless piece of shit. _He would've found the whole thing ironic if not for the pained expression on Steve's face.

"Any word on what happened to Wilson and the others?" He asked, deflecting away from himself to something equally painful and uncomfortable.

"I have a heading."

Bucky nodded. It had been over 48 hours since the fight at the Leipzig airport and little under 40 hours since their showdown with Stark had resulted in the prosthesis being blown almost completely from his shoulder. How long had it been since the bombing and the apartment, and the chase from Bucharest and the fight in Vienna? He couldn't quite recall. He squeezed his eyes shut, it felt like a lifetime ago, a blur in his already fuzzy memory.

He opened his eyes and looked up at Steve. _'Any word from Ramirez?' _He felt the words very nearly speak themselves, but he stopped himself. Steve looked worried and upset enough as it was; there was no need to compound it. He'd heard Steve and Wilson exchange tense words during their trip from the warehouse to the train depot. They hadn't heard from her in over 72 hours, which wasn't a good sign.

Bucky winced. This time he flinched nearly pulling away entirely from the grasp of the technician. "Sorry." He mumbled, focusing down on the lab floor.

He could feel Steve's eyes on him. There were so many questions that Steve wanted to ask, so much that Steve wanted to know. They'd talked on the quinjet between Germany and Siberia, but that had been frantic, near feverish as they'd tried to grapple with what he'd gotten them into, and what they were going to come up against. Sure there had been some banter between them, some reminiscing on the past, but they hadn't had any time for the real questions that Steve so desperately wanted to ask. The past they could talk about, but the future, their future was uncertain.

When Bucky glanced back up at Steve, he found that Steve's gaze had moved on, and he was watching the technician as he worked, wincing and grimacing.

Could Steve love him as he was now? Would he still love him if he knew what he'd done? He shouldn't. Steve should put a bullet in his skull and be done with the whole thing. It would be mercy. It would be no more than he deserved.

_What you did all those years, that wasn't you. You didn't have a choice. _That had been Steve trying to justify, trying to rationalize what the Winter Solider had done, versus what the man he considered his friend might have been a party to.

_I know, but I did it. _He'd responded, and Steve hadn't known how to react. How could he? How could even begin to reconcile what Bucky Barnes had been and what Bucky Barnes had become? Steve wanted to pretend they could go back to the way they had been in '45. No. Even before then, that they could go back to the way it had been when they'd been stupid kids when it had just been them versus the world.

He couldn't do it. It wasn't possible. How could he ever be the person, ever be the man he'd once been when he'd been the Winter Solider far longer than he'd ever been James Barnes. What did it mean to be Bucky Barnes? How could he possibly know? How could he even guarantee he'd stay that way? That Hydra wouldn't crawl back inside his head and make him their plaything again. The bastard who'd lured them to Siberia hadn't even been Hydra. How could be sure the code words wouldn't surface on the black market and auctioned to the highest bidder? That's why it was better to go back under and let the Wakandans have a go at the shit Hydra had shoved in his brain than risk another incident like Berlin.

Bucky glanced up at Steve, who was watching him. Did he know what he was thinking? Bucky certainly hoped not. Not after all that Steve had done for him.

"How are you feeling, Sergeant Barnes?" The Princess, Shuri, inquired as she walked up, a small wool cap edged with leather in her hands.

Bucky's gaze darted to Steve, who waited, breath held, for him to answer. He couldn't let the side down, couldn't let Steve know how much he was hurting, not after everything. "Can't complain." He shrugged with as much bravado as he could manage, hyper-aware of how off-balance he felt now without the arm tugging at his spine and shoulder.

"Good. Glad to hear. Your initial brain scans are back and are looking very promising. But first." She presented the cap to him. "As discussed. We removed the damaged exoskeleton of the old prosthesis, leaving behind the attachment mechanism and joint should you opt for a replacement at any point in the future. However, to protect you and the joint, I've designed this. It is magnetic but won't make you stick to anything else. It's waterproof and will protect the internal mechanism." She extended it to him.

He nodded, taking it wordlessly and sighed as he slid it over the numb of what remained of the Winter Soldier Prosthesis.

"Once we get you under," The Princess continued, "I'm going to remove and replace the chip that allowed you to control the prosthesis, it's what's causing you some discomfort."

Steve shot him a look.

"Nothing I'm not used to."

That comment did not have the desired effect as a pained expression cross Steve's face, "Buck?"

"I'm okay, Steve, I promise." He murmured before directing his attention back to the Princess, "How long will I be under?"

"As long as it takes. This is your brain we're talking about. What I'm going to do is create a copy of your brain, run some simulations and programs to see what works, and perfect my technique before I apply it to your brain. I also want to have a number of redundancies and workarounds in place should anything unexpected happen." Princess Shuri explained.

"You are in good hands," King T'Challa announced his presence.

"You mean the_ best_ hands." Princess Shuri corrected shortly.

Bucky opened his mouth to address the young monarch but was cut off by Steve, "Your highness, I can't thank you enough for doing this."

The king nodded, turning to face him directly. "My sister, while young, is the head of our research and design labs here in Wakanda. She will find a way to remove what Hydra put in your brain."

"Thank you, your highness."

"Thank you for trusting us enough to allow us to perform such a task," he replied.

Trust. Right. That. Well, it wasn't like anyone else was lining up to help out that boasted the same level of technology the Wakandans had access to. And if anyone deserved to poke around in his brain, it would be the Wakandans, particularly after what he had inadvertently caused.

He looked back up into the face of the man. They had been enemies, albeit through a _serious_ miscommunication, and now they were hesitant allies.

Bucky should be worried. He should be concerned. He should be more hesitant, more resistant to going back under, to trusting T'Challa and the Wakandans to not auction him off to _whoever._

King T'Challa had approached them shortly after they'd walked from the bunker in Siberia. He had Zemo in custody, and he'd offered his apology and his help.

Naturally, Steve had been wary, but the king had given them coordinates and all the necessary security clearance to enter Wakandan air space, and they'd gone their separate ways. He and Steve had talked through the various pros and cons and possible outcomes.

What if it's a trap? What if he just turns them over to Ross and the United Nations? What if they imprisoned them in Wakanda? There was an endless list of things that could go wrong. But there was also the tantalizing possibility that The King was genuinely offering to help, that the Wakandans were going to help them, and that maybe just maybe it might work.

Then six hours after trying to manage a skull-splitting headache, a seizure, and what to do with the charred, twisted remains of the metal prosthesis Stark had blown from his body, they'd come to a consensus. He needed help, professional help, and if the King of Wakanda was willing to give them quarter, they would take it. They didn't have any other options.

When they had arrived, they'd been greeted by Okoye, the head of the Dora Milaje, a squad of the Dora Milaje, and the King's younger sister Shuri. While it took a little bit of explaining, ultimately, they'd been allowed to leave the landing pad and were escorted up to the Wakandan laboratories. The rest, as they say, was history.

They'd hooked him up to an IV, fluids, antibodies, and stuff to help with the pain. That, combined with a long hot shower and clean clothes, he felt better than he had in a really really long time, aside from his prosthesis being blown from his body and nearly having his face kicked in by Tony Stark.

Bucky glanced back at Steve. Somethings would be much harder to heal than others. He wanted to ease the pain in his eyes, be able to make it right, but he couldn't, at least not right now, not the way that Steve needed or even wanted.

He had to disappear again, just for a little while longer. But there would be consequences, there always were, just as there had been over the past two years. Casualties of choice. That's what it meant to disappear. You removed yourself from everything, yet you and everyone around you were left with the consequences of that action, consequences of the void you'd left in your wake.

"You sure about this?" Steve asked. He really didn't want Bucky to go back into cryo. Everything about his body language screamed that. He could understand, Steve had just gotten him back, but after everything that had transpired, there would be no way for them to continue forward unless he did this.

"I can't trust my own mind. So until they figure out how to get this stuff out my head, going back under is the best thing for everybody." He smiled. It was thin and forced, but it seemed to ease some of the concern that radiated off him.

Steve nodded. He was trying to be brave; they both were. If only he could make Steve smile, it might make everything seem okay, or that it might be okay sometime soon.

Steve opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted by the Princess who'd marched back into the lab where they were preparing him for cryo. "Everything is ready when you are, Mr. Barnes."

"Yeah. Just a minute." Bucky nodded.

"Of course. Take all the time you need." The Princess nodded, retreating a fair distance to give them the space they needed.

They exhaled sharply, glancing at one another and then over at the cryo chamber that stood several yards away.

It was nothing like the set up back with Hydra. It would be _nothing_ like with Hydra. He was doing this willingly. These people wanted to help him, wanted to help reverse what Hydra had done to him.

_Is it possible? _

Bucky glanced up at Steve, who was watching him with those eyes, filled with such tenderness, yet with a sadness that approached despair. Bucky had to hope, for Steve's sake, if not his own.

"Steve." Bucky began.

"Yeah?"

"No matter what happens, I'm going to be okay. You know that, right?"

"Yeah." Steve nodded, swallowing hard, he looked at the ground, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Yeah, of course."

"I'll see you on the other side."

"And I'll be here."

There was a pause, an anticipation of sorts as if they expected the other to say something. He knew what 1940s Bucky would've said, but he couldn't say that, not yet, not right now, perhaps not ever.

Instead, Bucky looked to the attendant who was observing them. "I'm ready."

Steve backed away as a flurry of nurses and technicians descended upon him. He rose unsteadily to his feet, feeling lightheaded, but managed to make it to the cryo-chamber under his own power. The voices of the Wakandans seemed far away as they explained what they were doing. His eyes were focused on Steve, who was watching the whole scene, his jaw grit, his face grave.

"Okay, Sergeant Barnes, we're going to give you a sedative before we put you completely into cryo-stasis." The head of the cryogenics lab explained gently, drawing Bucky's attention away from Steve.

His heart pounded, and it took everything he had not to wrench away as they secured him into the cryo-chamber. _They aren't Hydra. They're here to help. They aren't going to hurt you. _He chanted to himself, trying to keep his heartbeat even and steady.

"I understand your worry, but we're going to take good care of you," The Princess said somewhere out of his line of sight.

"Thanks for that." He called out, trying to ignore how his voice shook.

Bucky turned to Steve, watching as the cryo-chamber started to close, he shut his eyes, holding the vision of Steve in his mind. _Do this for Steve. Do this to fix what you've done._

"Okay, Sergeant Barnes, breathe deeply and count backward from ten." A voice called.

Bucky inhaled deeply as the cold air entered the chamber, and the world around him disappeared.

* * *

A/N: So what do we think y'all? Never you fear, Bucky and Maggie are going to wind up geographically very very close to one another very soon. (The BEST IS STILL YET TO COME!) but for now a bit of a cliff hanger. :D Hope you're all enjoying and keeping sane and safe during this whole pandemic thing!

Until Next time, Happy Reading!


	31. Regrets and Remedies

Author's Note: Marvel owns what it owns, and I own what I own, let's keep it that way shall we? Don't Sue me!

Recommended Listening: Carry On My Wayward Son by Kansas, Have you Ever Seen the Rain by Creedence Clearwater Revival, Ain't No Grave by Johnny Cash, Stay with Me by Sam Smith, 20 Years by the Civil Wars

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Chapter 31-Regrets and Remedies

_Cold. Blistering unrelenting cold._

_He couldn't breathe, couldn't see, couldn't move._

_"They're pulling me. They have a mission for me for the soldier." _The thought cut through the din with amazing sharpness and clarity.

_His limbs tingled, so cold they felt like they were on fire. His left shoulder felt lighter. _

_"My Arm. The Arm. Hydra had taken the Arm." __That _was his next thought. _They'd taken it, for punishment or humiliation, he didn't know, but they'd reattach it. This was there was of reminding him who they were, of who the soldier belonged to._

_He tried to breathe but was met with crushing, freezing cold. He was drowning like he was under a frozen lake. His lungs ached, and any moment he_ _'d suffocate. He gasped for air, breaking the surface of the invisible frozen lake of cryo and into the waking world. He gulped down air, his chest heaving, vision blurring in and out of focus, his limbs burned._

_Voices warbled far away, they were speaking to him. He grasped helplessly at the words, trying to decipher their meaning. What did they want? Oh God, if he didn't respond they'd punish him, they'd hurt him._

_"_ _Bucky, Bucky, are you with us?"_ A voice broke through the fog.

_"_ _Steve?" He recognized that voice, and he could feel his face being cupped by two very warm, strong, but gentle hands. _

_"_ _I'm right here, Buck. You're all right. I've got you." Steve's voice floated in through the fog. _

_"_ _Steve?" _He managed again, with a little more strength.

_"_ _I'm here, Buck. I'm not going anywhere."_

Bucky exhaled, blinking. The hot Wakandan afternoon sun was bearing down on him, but he didn't mind the heat, he'd had enough cold to last a lifetime.

He glanced around at the rolling fields. His small herd grazed contentedly, not too far away. The grass was tall and yellow from the heat and sun. The skies were blue and cloudless, making the horizon stretch one for miles where the snow-capped mountains loomed overhead, and the lush jungles tinged the landscape with hues of greens. It was a scene worthy of poets or painters, of which he was neither.

_Did Steve still paint and draw? _He couldn't help but wonder. He could remember the mess of papers and crushed graphite strewn across the floor, the countless drawings and redrawing that Steve had done. He remembered the pennies scraped together to afford more paper and pencils, and the smile that the small gift had brought to Steve's drawn face as he lay recovering from some illness or another.

_No, he wouldn't have had much time to draw. _Bucky shook his head and looked down at the journal spread across his lap.

He'd never had much of a mind for drawing or painting, or anything like that. That had always been Steve's particular gift. He hadn't even been much of a poet either. He had penned a few lines of poetry as a lovesick teen, though he'd forbidden Steve from letting anyone else see, and well, the girls he'd written poems to weren't exactly around anymore to share what they'd read.

Bucky exhaled, examining the bright white crisp pages, still blank and untouched. The pages crackled with potential, of everything he could say, might say, everything that he should say. He held the pen poised, ready to make its first marks. What was there to say? What would be the best way to summarize what had happened since he'd been pulled from cryo-stasis? What was there to say now that he was a free man, cured, and now able to live his life? And If he really was a free man, then why didn't he feel like it?

It had been about a month and a half since Princess Shuri had pulled him from cryo and a month since he'd moved to a remote goat village in the Wakandan countryside.

The village had agreed to take him in. Omondi, the village elder, had pledged to keep an eye on him, give him something to do, and make him a member of the community. They called him the White Wolf. Not exactly the most subtle of honorifics, being the only white man in an African country, but it did mean that he was apart of their community, apart of Wakanda.

They'd given him a little hut, on the edge of the village, and a small heard of goats to look after, in addition to helping Omondi bag and distribute feed to the nearby villages. It was quiet, peaceful, and it had given him a lot of time and space to try and think through everything that had happened since June and since the fall in 1945.

While he'd thought about it, he hadn't been brave or stupid enough to ask The King if there was any way he could get his Journals back from his apartment in Romania. It was why he'd asked The Princess for the journal and pen. Yet, he still couldn't bring himself to start to write. There had been so much in his first one, so much research, so much time. The task of recreating that journal from scratch was daunting. Could he re-live the anguish and the pain that had forged the other one? The hours upon hours spent, pouring over documents and starring at names, wracking his brain for any detail or hint of what his life had been, and doing his best to forget the blood that had been spilled by his hand.

The wind stirred, blowing the grass and rustling the trees. Shaking his head, he closed the journal with an irritated snap and stowed the pen and journal away in his satchel.

He'd have time later to write. It would come to him. It wasn't as though he didn't have the time. He had all the time in the world. He hadn't received many visitors, other than the local children who liked to watch him work. Communication with Steve had been sparse as well. While he'd been there when Bucky had been pulled from Cryo, he'd been called away while Bucky had still been in the middle of tests and scans. They'd said goodbye, and Steve had promised he'd be back as soon as he could, but since then, he hadn't heard anything else out of Steve.

It didn't surprise Bucky, the man was on the run, while also trying to keep acting as a de-facto Avenger. That took a lot of time and energy. Steve had his hands full without having to deal with him.

Bucky stopped, turning at the sound of approaching footsteps, and immediately found the Princess Shuri followed by none other than Steve Rogers approaching where he was sitting.

"Hey, white boy! I come bearing gifts!" The Princess called, waving as they continued toward him. "Gift!" She amended, motioning with her head to Steve. "I would've called to warn you, but you never wear the Kimoyo Bracelet I gave you."

"I don't like the idea of being tracked," Bucky answered dryly as he rose to his feet and turned to face them squarely. _Given my history._ He added silently. "But, I appreciate the personal delivery."

"Well, since he's never been out this way before, figured we didn't want him getting eaten by panthers before he could make it to you."

"Very thoughtful."

Out of the corner of his eye, Bucky could see Steve following their exchange like he was watching a tennis match, his gaze moving intently back and forth, uncertainly written on his expression. He looked grave. His features pinched, though most of his face was hidden behind the beginnings of an ample beard.

"Well, my job is done. Mr. Rogers, I have helped you to your Mr. Barnes, I will let you two get properly reacquainted." Princess Shuri said lightly, "Are we still on for our appointment at the end of the week?" She asked as she turned to walk back down the path they'd come.

"Of course. Unless something changes."

"Unless something changes." She echoed. "See you later, white boy." She called before walking away and down the path out of sight.

It was only when the Princess had gone that Bucky turned to Steve. Beyond looking grave, Steve looked beaten up and exhausted. He was still wearing his Captain America Uniform, though much of the adornment had been removed and spray painted over. While he bore no dark rings or sunken features, Bucky could see other signs of exhaustion. A certain weariness in the way that he carried himself from his hunched shoulders to the way he just let his arms hang beside him.

"How you been, Buck?" Steve asked. Bucky couldn't help but not the slightest edge of tension in his voice, as the other man surveyed him. Like he was trying to read him like he was trying to figure out where he stood before he made a wrong move.

_Because you flinched._

Bucky hadn't meant to. He'd still been in a post cryo fog. Steve had been hovering, warmth and concern radiating off him in waves. Then he'd put his hand on Bucky's shoulder. Nothing more, nothing less, but he'd flinched, pulling away from Steve's touch.

He'd looked up to see pain in Steve's eyes and chiseled into the grit of his jaw.

Bucky had managed an apology, but it had been shortly after that Steve had gotten the urgent call.

_I will let you two get properly reacquainted._

The Princess knew something was up. Of course, the Princess knew she'd been prodding around in his brain. She probably knew more about him than he did at the moment.

So what could he tell Steve? What should he tell Steve? That he was still having nightmares and waking up in cold sweats? That he could remember in vivid detail the color and shape of their couch back in Brooklyn in addition to the hundreds of deaths he'd been a party to? What would put his mind at ease without completely lying about the reality of the situation? He was him, but he wasn't entirely sure what that meant still.

"Better." He managed, surveying Steve as carefully as he was surveying him. "Would you like to sit down?"

"Yeah. Sure." Steve nodded.

They sunk on the ground, in the little patch of grass that Bucky had flattened throughout the afternoon. His bag and water skin were arranged atop a blanket woven with blue and black designs, a red stripe accenting the pattern. From the nest he'd made, Bucky could see his small herd of goats and the Wakandan children who were playing some distance away. Steve sat down carefully as if he was afraid he might break something. His entire being looked tightly coiled and ready to snap as he sat cross-legged on the blanket beside him.

Bucky cracked a small smile, trying to put Steve at ease. Not only that, but it had also been a long time since they'd been alone together, and after everything that had happened, they were fortunate to get this chance. He _was _happy to see Steve. He'd thought about the man a lot while he was on the run and almost every day since he'd been pulled out of cryo. If he could dream in cryo, he would've probably had seen him in his dreams while he was under too. Now, he was sitting here next to him, there was so much to say, and little indication of where they should begin.

"I'm sorry. I tried to get away sooner." Steve began after a moment.

There was a twinge of guilt in Bucky's stomach at Steve's word. He should be out there, with Steve and the others. He'd helped get them into this mess. He should be out there trying to make it right. "You haven't missed much." He shrugged as casually as he could manage with only one arm. "Mostly scans, tests, and—" He was cut off by the sound of a bleating goat.

"Goats?" Steve supplied with an amused smirk.

"Yeah. Goats." Bucky suppressed a wince, waiting for the, "_Really Buck? You Goats?" _comment that was going to come. He'd spent most of his life in the city, and the most he'd been around farm animals was likely the two weeks he'd spent on Last Chance Ranch. He wasn't necessarily predisposed to looking after farm animals, never mind in the middle of nowhere.

"The Princess told me she moved you out here while your brain is healing. Minimizing stimuli." Steve continued.

"She told me she kept you up to date on all news while I was under."

"Yeah. She did." Steve paused, giving him a once over. "It's good to see you up and walking around again."

"Yeah. It's good to be upright." He agreed.

What Steve had failed to mention was that he'd been an absolute wreck the entire time he'd been under and that she'd kept him up to date so that he would stop checking in every few hours. In Steve's defense, he couldn't blame the man, exactly. He understood why the man would be nervous about the whole thing. Yet the picture the Princess had painted for him in the weeks that followed "The Great Thaw Out" as she'd put it, was not a pretty one, which begged the question of how the rest of the group was doing.

"How's Wilson?" He asked.

"Sam's good," Steve answered shortly.

"That's good."

That had been one thing he and Steve had managed to talk about in his brief lucid moment before Steve had been called away. Shortly after he'd been put under, Steve had sprung Wilson and Maximoff, while Scott and Clint had taken a plea deal. Romanoff was still MIA. It was a small consolation of sorts, knowing that they were safe, or as safe as anyone could be while on the run, but it still didn't completely curb the guilt that he felt for being responsible for getting them into this mess in the first place.

There was a long pause before Steve spoke again. "He does ask about you. Wants to know how you're doing." He said slowly.

_Of course, he does._ Bucky wasn't sure about how he felt about that. After all, he had tried to kill the man three times and had gotten him into life-threatening situations more than he cared to think about. They were no longer enemies, but after everything, Bucky felt that Wilson's kindness was unwarranted and undeserved. "It's good to know you have someone like him, watching your back," Bucky said, lamely. What else was there to say? _Sorry that I tried to kill your partner, like three times?_ Bucky didn't foresee that having the desired effect.

"I don't deserve him. Especially after everything I've put him through."

Bucky snorted, "No. You don't. But I _am_ glad you have someone like him."

Steve surveyed him carefully before proceeding. "How much do you remember about...about us?"

_Ah. Here we go._ This was what Steve had been trying to get at, trying to find a way to bring up ever since...well ever since Bucharest. It was something he'd also been puzzling through and trying to get a handle on. He knew what they were, or what they'd been, what was really the problem was, could he return to that?

"A lot, most of it now, I think." he paused. "You and Wilson...are you...I mean." Bucky struggled to find the right words. "Stepping out..together?" It sounded so old fashioned, even as the words crossed his lips and reached his ears. If he'd been inclined to it, he would've been embarrassed for himself. But the words had gotten their point across, and that was all that mattered.

"Yeah." Steve nodded.

"I'm glad."

"Buck, it doesn't mean—"

"I've been gone a long time, Steve." Bucky cut him off. "I'm glad for you and Sam. Even if the guy has zero sense of self perseveration, I'm glad you've got someone like him. Someone _stable._"

It still didn't answer Steve's unspoken question, _"what about us?" _Bucky could still see Steve's expression when he had pulled away from his touch. It was burned, seared into his memory, and it still stung, for both of them.

Ultimately, this wasn't about Wilson. Steve being in a relationship with Sam, didn't change anything between them. Back before the fall, before life had made things even more messy and complicated than it already was, they'd had an understanding. They had always possessed the capacity to love more than one person, and so it was understood they would date and likely marry other people, but that they would love each other no matter what. In a small way, Bucky was relieved that for Steve, at the very least, that hadn't changed.

This was about him, what he wanted, and what he was capable of. It didn't matter what he _wanted_. At the moment, it was about what needed to happen. He didn't know if he was going to wake up the same person he went to sleep as if he woke up at all. After everything that had happened, he didn't know who he was or who he wanted to be, never mind what type of person he'd be in a relationship. He was Bucky Barnes, but he wasn't the Bucky who had fallen from the train. He wasn't what Steve needed right now. There was no way he could be.

"I'm glad you have Wilson." He said.

But what did he have? Sure he had Steve. And Steve would be more than happy to pick up right where they'd left off. But he couldn't just pick back up where they'd left off. He was different, and he wasn't entirely sure that Steve would take him as he was now.

Bucky wanted Steve to hold him. He wanted to be held. He wanted Steve to tell him that things were going to be okay. But he couldn't, not when he couldn't trust himself not to flinch, not to pull away, and it would be even harder to bear the look of pain he'd cause on Steve's face.

After a moment, Steve nodded but said nothing, as both of them searched for something to say.

How long had they been together? What did Wilson think about all of this bullshit with him, Hydra, and the UN bombings? Had Steve met Wilson's Family? What were they like? Had Steve taken Wilson to meet Carter before she'd passed away? Had Wilson met Becca? They'd been practically family back before the war, and thick as thieves when it came to getting him into trouble, it would only make sense if Steve had sought out Becca's blessing with his new beau. "Did you take Wilson over to meet my Sister?" Bucky asked.

"I did." Steve nodded. "She liked Sam."

_Liked._ Past tense. They glanced at one another in the long pregnant silence, as mutual looks of grief and sorrow passed between them.

"I'm sorry Buck—"

"We've both lost people, Steve." He cut him off. There was nothing more that needed to be said. He'd lost Becca recently, and Steve had lost Carter. No amount of condolences was going to touch the pain they both felt.

He'd read about Carter's passing, shortly before everything had happened with the UN and his escape attempt from Bucharest. He couldn't imagine the pain that Steve was feeling. Sure, to him, Becca had been a connection to a past, his past, a time of innocence, a time before the bloodshed, and war, and time had had its way with him. But for Steve, Bucky had a feeling that Carter meant something _slightly_ different. Carter was less about what had been, and more about what could've been. Which Bucky, for his part, would argue was worse. Becca had lived a full life: she'd gotten an education, she'd traveled, started a family and created a family of her own, she'd been an activist and an all-around amazing human being. While Bucky had his regrets, he couldn't say that he regretted the type of person that Becca had become, even in his absence. She'd lived her life, and he was glad for that.,

However, for Steve, Carter had been the last link to what could have been, the reminder of what he'd lost. The chance at a normal life. Carter was the representation of every hope, every dream, every past and future that should have been that could now never be. That Steve could never have. More so than even that, Carter had seen Steve and loved Steve as Bucky had loved Steve. Not as Captain America, war hero, and now Avenger. No, Carter had seen and loved Steve, the kid from Brooklyn, small, fragile, asthmatic, too dumb to run away from a fight. That was worth something, that was worth _everything._ To be loved as the person you are, rather than the person people expected you to be, the person the world had transformed you into.

Bucky's thoughts drifted back to the obituary photograph, at the smiling faces, preserved in time. A family and a life that he hadn't been able to participate in. Yet he felt so intimately attached to them. Then, his thoughts turned to Ramirez. She had been in that photograph, enjoying and partaking in a life and a moment that by all rights should've been his. He wanted to hate her, but he couldn't. She hadn't chosen that, she hadn't chosen to have her life ripped away from her violently. She was a victim just like the rest of them, more so than the rest of them even.

He looked over at Steve. He'd turned his eyes to the grassland, surveying the herd of goats, and watching the children as they laughed and played their games. Steve hadn't mentioned anything about Ramirez, at all, not during their flight between Berlin and Siberia, not between Siberia and Wakanda, and not before or after he'd been in cryo. What was she to Steve? Bucky had heard Wilson and Steve whispering, trying to get ahold of her during the few hours they'd had before the brawl at the airport. But since then, Steve hadn't said anything. He needed to know. Needed confirmation that he wasn't imagining it. She was alive, and she was missing.

"You haven't found her yet, have you?" He asked absently.

"What?" Steve turned his head so fast Bucky was almost sure he'd have snapped his neck if not for the serum.

Steve's eyes searched him; his expression bent in equal parts surprise and pain. Panic surged in the pit of Bucky's stomach. He could always play it off, ask about Romanoff, ask about anything other than Ramirez. _No. _He'd asked, and he wanted answers. This was the only way forward. "Wilson's friend, Ramirez."

"How'd-"

"Becca's obituary photo," Bucky explained shortly.

Steve's mouth formed a silent, "Oh."

"You haven't found her, have you?" He repeated.

Steve looked down at the ground, shaking his head.

"She was helping you track me down."

"Yeah." He sighed, combing his hands through his hair.

_Becca, what did she tell Becca? _Bucky wanted to scream, but he clamped down on the urge, shoving it away. There were other things at stake here—bigger things at stake.

"I should never have gotten her involved in all of this," Steve said as he rubbed his face with his hands.

_You're just now figuring this out? _He would've asked, but he didn't. Steve looked horrible already, and if blame were to be laid at anyone's feet, it wouldn't be Steve's, it would be his.

Blame, however, wasn't going to get anything done. Blame and guilt weren't going to fix this problem, and it was a problem. A_ HUGE _problem. Bucky's mind kicked into gear, pulling out the journal and pen from his satchel he started writing. 'M. Ramirez, person of interest, connections to S. Rogers, S. Wilson, and R. Romanoff, information about B. Barnes,' He paused. 'In journal collected as evidence in Romania.' _Fuck. _She was in trouble. Bucky looked up at Steve, "How much does she know?"

Steve, who'd been watching him write, met his gaze, and the expression on his face spoke volumes. He didn't even need to say anything for Bucky to know the answer. _A Lot. _Why had Steve done that? Why had he allowed her to immerse herself in this world? Well, Steve's reaction made sense now, at the very least.

"Could she compromise us?" It was a cold question, a self-interested question, but a necessary one.

"I'll take care of it."

"Steve, could she compromise us?" Bucky asked, his voice taking on a harsher tone than he'd meant it to.

"I don't know," Steve said after a tense moment. "Probably. Yes. Romanoff would know more about it than I would."

_Of course, she would._ Romanoff had probably trained her up, taught her how to survive for when things went sideways. Natasha had never liked an unfair fight, and Ramirez versus the entire international intelligence community was not exactly even odds.

Bucky looked Steve over. He could see the anguish and frustration in Steve's features, from the grit in his jaw to the tension in his shoulders and back. Steve felt personally responsible for what had happened to this woman. For his part, Bucky did too. Most of this wouldn't have happened if he hadn't stumbled onto her ranch. But that wasn't the source of Steve's pain. It wasn't the initial injury, the initial hurt, the initial reason that she was involved in all of this. It was what had transpired the two years after Last Chance that was putting her in danger now. It was putting them all in danger. If someone got ahold of her, she could likely be pumped for information or used to lure Wilson and the others out of hiding. Steve was a loyal person, to a fault, and it seemed that Wilson was the same way. She would be a useful bargaining chip to anyone who knew how to apply the right pressure.

"Where have you tried looking?" Bucky asked.

"We know she crossed the border, but we haven't been able to find anything else." Steve shook his head. "We haven't been able to do much since we've been on the run."

"That's understandable." Bucky nodded.

"How'd you do it?"

"Do what?"

"Stay on the run for that long?"

What was there to say? It hadn't been fun or comfortable. It had been about survival, about keeping out of enemy hands, including Steve's. "Well, I wasn't hauling around extra people and a quinjet, Steve. That tends to attract a lot of attention." He tried to play it off for a laugh but cleared his throat when he saw Steve's expression. "It's about making your footprint small, wherever you go. It's about having contingencies, and knowing when to move and when to stay put. It's a skill. It takes practice." He paused.

_Romanoff must have helped her, must have trained her up. It was the only explanation. _If Steve and the others couldn't find Romanoff, he was the next best chance they had at finding Ramirez. But first, he had to know.

"The woman. Ramirez, was she-I mean were she and Becca friends?" He managed after a moment. Steve's answer wouldn't change anything. He was still going to help him find her. She had risked her neck for him, and now was in trouble because of him, but he needed to know what kind of person Ramirez was, beyond his own recollection, and what type of person his sister had thought she was.

"Yeah. They were." Steve nodded. "They got close. Becca loved Ramirez. Ramirez took Becca's death hard." He chuckled sourly, shaking his head, wincing, "_really_ hard."

Bucky didn't say anything, pulling at some of the grass just beyond the border of the blanket. There was a story there, a story they didn't have time for at the moment, but perhaps if they managed to find and rescue Ramirez, he'd get to hear it. He was going to find Ramirez for Steve, and for Becca, and because this wasn't just about a single person. This was someone who could compromise Steve, Wilson, and expose him and the Wakandans. She wasn't just someone who knew a lot about him. This wasn't his sister's friend or the woman who'd sheltered and protected him. Right now, she was a threat. He glanced up at Steve. Of course, that wasn't how Steve saw it, but perhaps he should.

"Steve. I'm going to help you find Ramirez."

"You don't have to do that."

"Yes. I do." Bucky said shortly. "Romanoff was your best chance at finding Ramirez, but I'm your next best option." Steve opened his mouth to say something, but Bucky charged on. "You may not want to hear this, Steve, but she's worth more alive than dead." He faltered a moment at Steve's expression. He didn't regret saying it. It needed to be said. "She's dangerous, Steve." He continued. "If Ross or anyone else gets their hands on her, this will end badly. For you, for me, for Sam, for the Wakand-" He stopped. "Fuck."

"What?"

"Have you told the King about Ramirez?"

"No? Why?"

Bucky hesitated. How best to say what needed to be said. "While I was on the run, I kept a journal." He began haltingly, "It was the one in my apartment, in Bucharest." Bucky exhaled slowly before continuing. "It had pages on Ramirez, what I remembered about Last Chance Ranch and about her. If the UN collected that journal as evidence for the bombings, then they already know about Ramirez and the implications of aiding and abetting a known international war criminal and fugitive. She's a threat to Wakandan national security."

Steve nodded, rising to his feet. "I need to go."

Bucky rose as well. "I'm going with you."

"No." Steve shook his head. "I can't ask you to get involved in all of this."

"I wasn't asking permission, Steve," Bucky replied shortly. Pausing, he added, "She's in trouble because of me. It's the least I can do."

"She isn't in trouble because of you, Bucky."

"It doesn't matter who's at fault," Bucky's voice was sharper than he meant it to be. He took a deep breath and shook his head. "She helped me, and it cost her everything. If I _don't _help, what does her sacrifice mean?" It sounded nobler than it felt, but it was the truth.

If he didn't help now, that was a choice, that was a choice he would have to live with. This was his fault, and it would be part of making things right. Regardless of blame, he would bear some of the responsibility for what happened to Ramirez.

"Okay."

"I'll get the kids to look after the Goats, we'll go back to my place, and I'll call ahead to the Princess. You should get a hold of Wilson, whatever intel you have on Ramirez will be useful and be a useful peace offering."

"Peace offering?" Steve echoed.

"They're not going to be pleased that Ramirez has been walking around with all that information in her head, never mind that it could compromise and put Wakanda at risk."

"Right."

They worked quickly, and after dropping off the blanket and making a few calls, they made their way to the capital in silence.

It wasn't a far walk, Wakanda as a country wasn't huge, and within half an hour they were across the prairie, and the massive skyscrapers of the capital rose before them. They wound through the busy streets receiving plenty of double-takes and stares. It was loud and crowded, and it put Bucky on edge. People mercifully created a path for them as they walked, but he could feel his heart pounding in his throat, and his eyes swiveled back and forth, prepared for just about anything. The Princess had said that a low stimuli environment would be good for him while his brain repaired itself, but he had to admit, he did appreciate the isolation of his little hut in the countryside and was eager to return to it. However, despite his discomfort, they had to take care of this one thing, and then perhaps he could find a more restful peace amongst the goats in the grass.

As approached the front steps of the palace, they were met by no less than The King, The Princess, The General, and several Dora and War Dogs Bucky didn't know, who wordlessly ushered them inside an office. It was high above the city, and Bucky could see the comings and goings down in the city below, and well out to the plains and mountains that created the border of the small country. The Doras and the War dogs filed in, The General closing the door behind her with a snap.

"Please, take a seat." T'Challa motioned to the squat chairs around a low table. It had a diorama of Birnin Zana, the Capitol of Wakanda, but Bucky was almost positive that it could be configured to suit the needs of whatever the King needed.

The King sunk into his chair at the head of the table, and Steve followed, and The Princess followed. Bucky hesitated, watching the General for his cue, she nodded, pointing with her chin to a seat. He nodded in response and did as quietly instructed before she also sat down, laying her spear across her lap. The War Dogs and other Doras remained standing, providing more than enough in the way of security should he or Steve decide to do _anything_ they didn't like.

"So, what is it you have to tell us?" T'Challa inquired pleasantly, his cat-like eyes surveying them cooly.

Steve glanced at Bucky, who nodded, silently urging him to proceed. _You know more than I do._

Steve took a deep breath before he addressed the King's quiet, piercing gaze. "Magdalene Ramirez, a civilian operative working with Samuel Wilson and myself to track down James Barnes over the last two years, went missing shortly before the bombing at the UN in Vienna June 22, 2016. Since her disappearance, we have, thus far, been unsuccessful in our attempts to make contact with her. We have reason to believe she possesses sensitive information that could potentially compromise," Steve faltered, taking another deep breath charged on. "We have reason to believe she has information that could compromise Wakandan security, should she be found and interrogated by hostile parties."

_Hostile parties, yeah, that's certainly one way to say anyone and everyone who might want to know where the Winter Soldier ended up. _Bucky couldn't help but think, as he watched the young monarch's expression closely.

For his part, T'Challa's expression gave away nothing, and after a moment, he spoke. "This woman, Magdalene Ramirez, is she a personal friend of yours?"

"Yes."

T'Challa glanced over at the General before Okoye turned her eyes to Steve. "Why was this not brought to our attention before?"

"Because he didn't know she was mentioned in the property seized by the UN, and I didn't know she was missing." Bucky cut in, addressing The General directly.

"When Barnes brought this to my attention, he immediately recommend that I advise you to the situation and turn overall intel we've collected thus far in our search for her," Steve said shortly, his attention now turned to the General.

The glower they shared would've been enough to cut diamonds, vibranium, or anything else for that matter. But Okoye wasn't wrong. Steve _should've _said something, but then Steve hadn't known that she was in Bucky's journal either. So once again, this all came back to him.

"I understand your concern, General, but what's past is past. Barnes and Rogers are trying to make amends for their previous inaction." T'Challa interceded, graciously. "Would you be averse to presenting that intel for us now, Captain?"

"Not at all."

Steve flicked the data file from the Kimoyo bracelet Bucky had let him borrow, out into the center of the room, and the scant traces that they'd found of her circled just over their heads in flickering purplish-blue holograms. Bucky grimaced. He'd honestly seen better intel written on the back of a napkin in lipstick. But then again, Wilson and Steve weren't spies, they were soldiers, and had taken a soldier's approach to try to find Ramirez.

A cell phone taped to the undercarriage of a semi, clothes waded up and thrown into the bottom of a trash can at a rest stop, bus tickets, plane ticks, receipts, a passport scan at the U.S. Mexico border. There was also her banking statements, where there were charges for a Bus ticket from Abilene to Mexico City. Then she'd bought a bus ticket for a few days later, leaving Mexico City to Cozumel. There was a receipt for a cruise and a booking confirmation number at an all-expenses-paid resort. She'd even used Groupon. There were also consistent withdraws of five-hundred dollars dating back months.

It was a smokescreen, an impressive and elaborate smokescreen, but hastily and inexpertly executed. The purchases were made to look like she was headed in a particular direction. Bucky knew without asking that Steve and Sam had checked up on every one of them. It was the ATM withdraws that intrigued Bucky.

Ramirez had been making ATM withdraws of about five-hundred bucks a week for at least six months before her disappearance. She'd been trying to make it look random. She'd draw it on different days in different amounts from different ATMs, but it came out to the same amount every week.

She'd been creating a cache. About twelve-thousand dollars worth. _Smart. _The most she could've crossed the border with without declaring it was ten grand, and that would be pushing it.

_She knew she was going to disappear; she was planning on disappearing. _The thought hit Bucky with such force he almost had to sit back in his seat. Okay, so she went to ground, meaning she didn't want to be found. So what was the leading theory here?

She'd be somewhere densely populated, where she could blend in. Somewhere she knows the terrain and can quietly cultivate and navigate a cover. She probably has fake identification, and probably has changed her appearance somewhat, nothing too drastic, nothing that would draw too much attention, but enough to throw people off. Her hand was crushed, meaning surgery scars, identifiable marks so she'd be somewhere she could either cover-up or that they would be inconsequential.

He stopped himself, glancing around the darkened room at the faces looking up at the intel that Steve had gathered. The King, The General, the Doras, the War Dogs, all of them had cool, nearly placid expressions as they surveyed the information in front of them, what they were thinking Bucky couldn't rightly say. The Princess, by comparison, was an open book. It wasn't so much any one thing as a combination of everything. The young woman sat at the edge of her seat, her hands working a holographic keyboard, her eyes darting between her screen and the intel overhead. She was always multi-tasking, but the way her jaw was set, and the intensity of her expression, something else was going on here.

They knew. They knew about Ramirez and likely knew where she was.

Looking away from the Princess, he found that the King had his eyes on him. Was he watching him for a reaction? Was he trying to see what he and Steve knew before he played his hand? Bucky didn't know. Looking away and then back up, he tried to think through what the King must be thinking. What did the sovereign of a nation think about shit like this? He thought strategically, and he probably was thinking two or three moved ahead. If he knew about Ramirez, then he also probably knew where she was. Now the next step would be determining what they would do with her. Leave her in place under Wakandan surveillance, pull her from her hiding spot, or eliminate the risk entirely. No option was without its faults, but some options created more issues than others.

"Thank you, Captain, I think that's more than enough," T'Challa said, motioning for the lights to come up.

The lights came up, the windows undimmed, and Steve looked slightly taken aback as the images disappeared from view.

"Tell me." T'Challa began slowly. "Does the Llorona Network mean anything to you?"

Steve frowned, shaking his head. "I know the story of La Llorona. It's a Mexican folk legend." He paused, glancing around the table. "I don't quite follow."

T'Challa exchanged glances with select people in the room before turning back to the table and flicking open a data file from his Kimoyo bracelet. Ramirez's face projected into the center of the room, an array of documents, maps, and videos appeared beside it. In several of the pictures and videos, she was wearing a platinum wig, but it was very clearly her.

_So she didn't want to be found._

"We have been monitoring the situation since Berlin, and doing our best to keep other interested parties off her trail, including you and Mr. Wilson, particularly after she became embedded in the Llorona network."

"Ramirez is involved in the Llorona Network? What is that?"

T'Challa motioned to one of the War Dogs, who stepped forward. She was a younger woman, probably in her early 30s, but moved with the assurance of someone trained to kill, and comfortable in her own skin. She looked as though she'd been called from leisure time, as she was wearing a bright green jumpsuit printed with the pattern of the River Tribe. Her eyes were bright and sharp as they surveyed the room, falling briefly on him and then on Steve. "This is Nakia, head of international intelligence and outreach. Tell Captain Rogers what you've found."

"La Llorona Network is an anti-trafficking network. Compromised of mostly older women, mothers, and grandmothers, they've been disrupting the cartel's trafficking operations for almost five years now." Nakia explained, moving around and manipulating different files. "Our operatives working within the network claim Ramirez has been actively involved for about two months. At first, we thought she was working cooperatively with vigilante agents outside the Network, but have now been able to ascertain that she is working as a solo operative within the Network." Nakia paused. "There are are several operations ongoing throughout the Network at any given time, but we have received intel that indicates the network is going to make a large move against the cartels in the next 24-48 hours."

Steve glanced between Nakia, The King, and The General. "Is there any way to extract her before then?"

T'Challa looked pointedly at Nakia, who shook her head. "It's more complicated than that. We believe Ramirez has been positively identified by American agents as well, and they are planning on extracting her during The Network's next action. If we extract her from the Network now, we risk not only her but everyone in the Network."

Steve exhaled, nodding, "Okay, so what's our move?"

"You won't be doing anything, Captain." T'Challa said shortly, Steve opened his mouth to protest, but T'Challa continued, "As you said, this is a threat to Wakandan security. We will do everything in our power to extract Ms. Ramirez during planned action. I will also grant Ms. Ramirez asylum within my countries borders until that time when her protection is no longer needed. No further action on your part is desired or needed."

Steve grit his jaw, and Bucky was almost positive he was going to have to keep Steve from lunging over the table at the young monarch. Though Bucky knew that T'Challa was more than capable of holding his own against Steve, he really didn't need another international incident on his hand.

"Understood," Steve said tersely.

"Good," T'Challa said, before leveling his gaze at Bucky. "Go back to the countryside, look after your goats, Mr. Barnes, we will update you as necessary," T'Challa rose to his feet.

That was a dismissal if ever Bucky had heard one, but they were _guests_ in this country. But he wasn't done. And something possessed him to push his luck a little further. "Can we inform Wilson that his friend has been located?"

"You may." T'Challa nodded, turning to go.

"Out of curiosity, where was she?" Bucky's question stopped the monarch, who turned back to him.

"Why?" He asked, arching a graceful eyebrow.

"Ramirez is from west Texas, Midland-Odessa area, she'd go somewhere she was familiar, where she'd blend in, and that was densely populated. She wasn't looking for rescue, but instead to disappear or go to ground." T'Challa and his advisors remained blank-faced, but Bucky charged on. He had to know if he was right. "She's in Ciudad Juarez."

"That is a fascinating theory, Mr. Barnes," T'Challa replied, barely hiding a look of amusement. "Have a good rest of your afternoon."

Bucky nodded, watching as the King and his entourage left the briefing room, Shuri being the last, cast a fleeting glance over her shoulder back at them. He could feel Steve coiled up beside him, whether it was anger or frustration or a good combination of both, Bucky didn't know, but he did know that there was nothing further to be done.

"Come on, Steve," Bucky said gently. "The King said he'd keep us updated. I need to get back to my goats, and you need to call Wilson to let him know what's going on."

Steve nodded, wordlessly following him from the briefing room.

_So she's in Juarez working against the cartels. _Bucky couldn't help but shake his head. _Either she's a bleeding heart case, or she's just downright suicidal. _Either way, she was in tremendous danger, and Bucky hoped, if only for Steve and Wilson's sake, that the Wakandans could pull her out of this mess in time.

_And then what? You heard T'challa. She's going to be placed under Wakandan protection, meaning she's stuck here. _It meant that sooner or later they'd have to face one another, sooner or later he'd have to reckon with what it was that Ramirez had been to his sister, and what therefore she meant to him.

Bucky shook his head again. They'd worry about that _after_ she'd been pulled out from under the cartel and the United States government's noses and not a moment before. After all, a lot could happen in 24-48 hours. Anything could happen.

* * *

Sorry that update took a little bit longer than normal, life and such. I always enjoy hearing from you! Please R&R!


	32. Transport and Transfer

Author's Note: Marvel owns what it owns, and I own what I own, let's keep it that way shall we? Don't Sue me!

TW: Gun Violence, Cartel Violence, Implied Death, Mentioned death, mentioned kidnapping, blood, gunshot wound mention, blood mention

Recommended Listening: Desperado Theme by Gipsy Kings, L'arena by Ennio Morricone, The Bandit With Missing Hand by Ennio Morricone, Alacran y Pistolero by Chingon, Watch Chimes (From "For a Few Dollars More") by Ennio Morricone, Welcome to the Jungle by Guns and Roses

* * *

Chapter 32: Transport and Transfer

The streets were quiet or quieter than she'd expected them to be on the Day of the Dead. Then again, this was Juarez.

The streets were crumblings, and the street lights were scant. Those illuminated flickered, casting an eerie glow on the road around them.

Maggie exhaled slowly, running her hands over the steering wheel of the panel van she was sitting in. The vehicle was parked, and her eyes swiveled left to right, keeping vigilant for anything that wasn't _supposed_ to be there.

She quietly recited the route. She'd driven it dozens of times now. She knew it like the back of her hand.

_The back of my hand, right._

Her attention turned momentarily turned to her left hand. She knew the route like the back of _this_ hand that was for damn sure. She surveyed it slowly in the dim light, the scars still ghastly and bright, the joints not entirely proportional. She'd developed a tremor in that hand since she'd come to Juarez. Being on the run wasn't conducive to PT though Maggie was reasonably sure that factory work hadn't helped _either._ But the Maquillas were always looking for fresh blood, and she'd needed a job and a cover.

Being a factory girl wasn't glamorous work, it didn't pay well, but it kept her busy, and it had kept her invisible. No one looks twice at a factory girl. No one asks them about their past or their homes or their families. Scars and mangled limbs were par for the course, and working through intolerable pain even more so.

Every one of them had a story, and every one of them was on their own, which was why it had been the perfect cover. No attachments, no relationships, no messy entanglements. That's what Natasha had taught her, and that's what needed to happen for her to stay out of any further trouble.

Thus far, she hadn't done a good job of keeping a low profile. By the very nature of her complexion and accent, she was different. She was far lighter-skinned than most of the others and spoke Texas-Spanish rather than the Spanish particular to central Mexico where most of her co-workers had come from. But crossing the border had been the only way Maggie could think of that would make it more difficult to track her. And she was all about making things more difficult for anyone who might be pursuing her.

Then Maggie had moved into a two-bedroom apartment with six other girls. She'd been the oldest, of course, most of them no more than seventeen or eighteen, Away from their families, their village, their homes for the first time in their lives. They'd taken to calling her their Aunt, and each other cousins. Maggie didn't mind so much, she could understand it. Most of them were homesick, all of them were frightened, and she didn't blame them.

There were a great many reasons to be afraid. Afraid they'd lose their job over a minor infraction. Afraid of not having enough to eat, or not having enough to send home to their parents. Afraid of what lurked in the dark.

These girls weren't stupid. They knew about the cartel activity, the kidnapping and killing of young women, young women just like them. They very well knew that it could be one of them next, while they walked home from the grocery store or the bus stop.

Maggie was afraid. She'd been afraid long before coming to Juarez, but in the dark, those fears amplified and compounded tenfold. She was afraid of being captured, afraid of being caught or worse, dragging one of these girls with her.

Maggie sighed, looking around the street again. Nothing had changed. She was still a bleeding heart case, despite everything, despite needing to remain detached, the girls had wormed their way into her heart, and she had welcomed them with open arms. They trusted her, and Maggie wanted to protect them.

That was how she'd gotten wrapped up in all of this mess.

One of her roommates had gone missing, and then one of the girls on the line that had shown her the ropes the first day had disappeared, and then another who'd always shared her lunch with girls who hadn't brought theirs hadn't shown up to work. Maggie had tried to keep her head down, tried not to get involved, not make waves, and stick out in the crowd. She tried to ignore the gaps filled by another faceless voiceless girl and the muffled sobs in the night.

But she couldn't. She couldn't turn a blind eye, couldn't watch as these girls went to slaughter at the hands of evil men. So she'd gone looking for trouble. Or rather, gone looking for any trace of where these girls had disappeared and who had seen them last. She'd asked questions, perfectly innocent ones too, until she'd found herself on a rooftop, watching an exchange take place. That was how she'd found them, or rather they'd found her—the Network.

They'd snatched her off the roof and interrogated her. They'd been watching her, and they were interested in why someone like her was interested in finding the girls. Then, rather than killing or maiming her, they offered her a job, or a job of sorts to prove she wasn't a cartel informant. Mostly it was small things, carrying notes, or passing off packages and supplies to the Marias within the Network.

The Marias had the most difficult and dangerous jobs. They baited the cartels into kidnapping them so they could lead the Network to the locations where the cartels were holding the girls. From there, extraction and transport would be arranged.

Maggie had worked in the courier position for about a month before she'd been promoted to transport. She'd been so nervous that first night, but after a while, the nerves and adrenal had faded to a dull twinge. She'd seen too many deaths at the hands of the cartels to allow nerves to play a part. She knew what they were capable of, but then again, she also knew what she was capable of.

She glanced down at the floorboards of the van, her go-bag wedged just under the driver's seat, her gun taped just out of view under the steering column, extra magazines tucked into her waistband. She was ready.

Tonight was supposed to be like any other pick up, but something else was going on, something big, something that was putting everyone on edge. It hadn't been outright said, but there was something massive about to take place, and everyone was bracing for the worst.

Maggie glanced at the side mirror. Her partner stood about a block away smoking a cigarette, and she waited with bated breath for the signal. 'Two blocks up, five minutes, four for pick up, the coast is clear.'

She turned on the stopwatch placing it in the cup holder attached to the dashboard and started the van checking that everything was good to go.

Her eyes scanned the street just outside. The sun had already dipped below the horizon, and the sky was a multitude of purple pinkish hues. It was gorgeous, a true triumph of nature. Her eyes turned from the sky to the earthly, human squalor below, the potholes in the road, the flickering street lights, the cinder block, and wrought iron fence line that hid unknown dangers beyond them. Anything could happen.

She offered up a silent prayer, touching the chain around her neck, and the two wedding bands strung around them. _Riley, if you're up there, keep an eye on my six._ It was the same prayer she'd given every night that she'd done a runner. Most members of the Network left candles in churches or at the many shrines they'd constructed around the city. Some wore pendants with various saints. Maggie spoke to Riley, and to her mother, and brother, and grandfather, and all those who had gone before her to either protect her in her mission or guide her home if she was through. It was a small comfort, but it was the only comfort that she could afford in such a place and time.

The stopwatch beeped, and Maggie silenced it, before shifting the van into drive. The radio was on, but she could hardly hear it over the thundering of her heartbeat.

As she pulled up to a stop sign, there was a series of quick knocks on the side of the door, and Maggie unlocked the van before the door slid opened and then quickly shut again.

Maggie continued driving without saying a word, but she could hear them, hear their ragged breaths caught in their throats, their muffled, silent tears, that escaped through cupped hands and clenched jaws. She kept her eyes front, fingers tapping the steering wheel along to the radio. They drove a good two minutes in total silence before she could hear the breathing behind her start to even out, and the palpable tension start to dissipate.

She made the planned turn left and then right several blocks down, keeping her eyes moving between the road and the side mirrors.

Then she spotted it.

A single beat-up pickup truck, nondescript, barely noticeable if she hadn't been looking for it. It was a small vehicle, but three men were sitting in the cab, and another two in the back. It wouldn't have meant anything, but they'd been trailing her for two blocks.

_Fuck._

She turned on her left blinker, and the truck behind her did the same. Turning right at the last minute, the truck followed.

Maggie wished it was a coincidence, she wished that she could even think that it might be a coincidence, but it wasn't.

Maggie turned right when she should've turned left, and there was a sharp inhale of breath from behind her. The Maria knew they'd been made.

There came the rushed whispers, and a shuffling as the girls plastered themselves on the floor of the van. Then there was silence, with only the sound of the radio, and the road, and the loud thudding of Maggie's heart filling the space.

She knew the procedure. Shake the tail and head toward a secondary transport location. If it came to a fight, be prepared to fight. But above all else, do not compromise the Network.

Twisting and turning and winding through the streets, Maggie drove calmly and purposefully, doing her best not to show any indication of panic or fear.

She was two blocks away from the secondary transport location when a car, sleek, and black, and definitely not from _this _part of Juarez pulled out in front of her.

"Fuck." She swore under her breath. "I'm going to need you all to hold on." She said quietly. _I'm going to get you out of this_. Maggie would've said had she been a hero, had she been Natasha, or Steve, or Sam, had she been a soldier, a spy, a hero, had she been anything but a small frightened woman in over her head.

The car slammed on its breaks, and Maggie put the van into reverse and floored the gas. Speeding backward, she maneuvered around the truck and down the street. When she reached an intersection, she put the van back into drive, turned, and sped away, tires screeching behind them.

Then came the sound of gunfire. First, in single thick sounding rounds, and then in a quick burst.

_They're going to shoot out your tires._

She knew she didn't have much time. She'd bought them a little bit of time with her maneuver, but it wasn't going to be enough to shake them completely.

Maggie flinched at the sound of bullets ripping through the side of the van, metal on metal with a smell like fireworks.

She returned her focus to the road, mapping our the streets of Juarez in her head. They were going to have to abandon the van sooner rather than later, fan-out, and meet at the rendezvous point on foot. "Can you get them to the secondary drop?" Maggie stammered her Spanish sloppy and nearly incoherent.

"Yes." The Maria responded, her voice still smooth and even. "We're going to need cover."

"Leave that to me." There it was, the bravado, the confidence, the assurance. Maggie wasn't sure where it had come from, but she knew that she needed to be that right now, for those girls, for the Maria, for the Network, for herself.

There was a gentle squeeze on her elbow. "God go with you." The Maria murmured gently.

Maggie nodded, swallowing hard. "Be ready to go in in 3...2..1..." She veered off the road and slammed on the breaks.

The van shuddered to a stop at an alleyway, blocking it off to anyone going in or out. Before the van could stop completely, the Maria was issuing instructions in rapid-fire Spanish, and she and the girls were out and into the alley before Maggie could open the driver's side door out into the alleyway.

Grabbing her gun, and putting on her go-bag, she turned her back to the alley and faced the street. Out in the street, the perusing vehicles had screeched to a halt, and its inhabitants were now climbing from their vehicles to open fire upon them.

_Fuck. _

She was aware that she was telling the girls to run, but as soon as the gunfire resumed, everything else melted away. She'd been here before, not like this, not in this way, but Natasha had been right. _Be prepared to kill, because whoever is trying to kill you will likely have more training and won't hesitate. _

Maggie wasn't sure about the better-trained bit of that, how many cartel thugs had been trained by a former Hydra/KGB super spy and avenger? But they did want to kill her.

She half ran, half sidled, ducking and dodging behind dumpsters, electrical boxes, and other street garbage, as she tried to give the girls and the Maria cover and suppressing fire as they ran along the alley ahead of her.

There was a scream, and she turned to see the Maria hunched against the wall, her hand clutching her stomach. The girls froze, glancing between her and the bleeding Maria. "You have to go now. Run!" She told them as she rushed to help the wounded woman. "I'll take care of her." Maggie turned and slung the woman's right arm over her shoulder, wrapping her left arm around her waist. "You with me?" Maggie asked breathlessly.

"You should go, go without me." She managed weakly as they staggered up the alleyway toward the next dumpster they could get shelter behind.

Maggie didn't have time to reply as another spray of bullets hailed around them, kicking up rocks at their feet. Maggie winced as several of the large rocks hit her in the leg and back.

"Come on. Come on. We're okay." Her voice was strained and squeaky as she eased the Marie down on the ground behind the dumpster. Before reaching for another magazine to re-load her gun. She came up empty.

Looking down, she realized her hands were shaking and that she and her clothes were covered in blood. Staggering to her knees, she reached over to check the Maria's pulse but stopped to steady herself against the dumpster, her vision blurry, a high pitched ringing in her ears that drowned out the sound of gunfire.

Looking down again, she saw that the blood wasn't from the other woman; it was hers. She'd been shot, twice, once through her thigh, and once through her side.

Frantic and with shaking hands, she ripped off her backpack and yanked some paracord from the front pocket, wrapping the cord around her leg, just above the entry wound. She turned to the other woman. She wasn't breathing.

"Maria," Maggie called frantically in a hoarse whisper, tears started to stream down her grime and blood-streaked face.

The shouting and the gunfire were getting closer. Only, Maggie realized after a moment, it wasn't directed at them.

"Maria." She repeated. It wasn't her name. It wasn't her real name. Maggie didn't know her real name, didn't know if she had a family if she had lost someone if anyone knew who she was, or if there would be anyone to tell that she was missing or dead.

Maggie paused as the street fell silent, but with the silence came the feeling of leaden terror. Fear overwhelmed her senses, as she frantically pulled the utility knife from her backpack before pulling it back on. Dragging herself to her feet, she held her breath, ready to defend herself, against whatever was to come.

Rounding the dumpster, she saw something, more shadow than actual shape. Maggie lunged as best as she could, but the thing in black grabbed and shook the knife from her hand. Grabbing her wrist, it hauled her bodily over their shoulder.

She tried to scream, but like a nightmare, no sound came out as the world slipped away and into inky blackness.

* * *

Maggie was awake but kept her eyes shut as she tried to take in as much as of her surroundings as possible without alerting her captors? Rescuers? She wasn't entirely sure. She was warm, there was a soft, albeit heavy, blanket on top of her. She wasn't in any sort of pain, she wasn't tied down, and the voices that she could hear were low, but tinged with concern rather than menace. If she was being held hostage by the cartels or the US government, they were certainly very considerate.

Then one voice cut through the din, "How is she? Is she stable? Can I see her?"

Eyes shooting open, Maggie sat bolt upright, throwing off the blanket, scrambled from the examination table, and charged blindly in the direction of the voice. "Steve?" She croaked, her mouth and throat dry.

Maggie tripped but was grabbed by two very strong hands before she could hit the ground.

"Steve?" Her voice was shaking as she looked up into the concerned face of none other than Steve Rogers.

"I got you, Maggie, I got you." He said soothingly, as he helped her right herself.

Looking up at him, a thousand feelings, thoughts, and emotions crossed her mind. "You have a beard." She managed finally, with a half-laugh as tears started to well in her eyes, cupping his face in her hands.

"Yeah."

Without anything else to say, Maggie pulled him into a hug, practically collapsing into his arms. She was safe, or she was dead, either way, she was with Steve, so she knew that Sam was nearby.

"I've got you. You're safe. Everything is all right." Steve murmured, as he held her tightly in his arms.

Maggie pulled back. It wasn't all right. She'd been shot, the Maria, the girls what had happened to them? She looked around, taking in everything around her. She was in some kind of laboratory, but she could only use the word loosely. It was a round room, made of rock, and windows. There were holographic screens and work stations that illuminated and blinked in various colors. Outside the windows, there was a massive mining operation taking place. They were underground, and the gigantic cavern below them stretched on forever.

_Where the fuck am I?_

She glanced up at Steve. "What happened? Where am I? What's going on? Where's Sam? What happened to the girls and the other woman?" She stammered, reaching down she lifted the shirt she was wearing to find there was no bullet wound, no scar, just even smooth brown skin. "I was shot." She stammered, looking back up at Steve. "I was shot. I was shot twi-" She stopped as she looked past Steve, a dark suit catching her eye.

"That! I've seen that!" She rushed past him and toward it. "Only not this one."

Maggie turned back around to Steve and saw two people standing several yards behind him. A black man and woman. Siblings if Maggie was going to guess, based on similar features. The woman was the younger of the two, probably younger than Maggie, if she could even be called a woman, and not a girl. Her features while currently grave were young and youthful, with a bit of youthful fullness to them, like some of the girls she'd worked with in Juarez, putting her at no more than sixteen or seventeen, eighteen at the very most. She was wearing a bright neon pink and green dress with asymmetrical color stripes and patterns of other neons in blue and orange and yellow. Over the dress, she wore a mesh smock and white shoes approximating sneakers. Her hair was braided in thin rows and piled on top of her head into two messy buns with beads and bright threads both woven into her hair, and holding the buns in place, and adding pops of color and ornamentation to the young woman's hair.

The man, by contrast, was far more understated wearing a black tunic, cut and fitted like a long jacket, emblazoned with white and silver embroidery around the neck and yoke of the jacket, with loose-fitting black pants, and what appeared to be leather boots. His expression was grave like his sister's, but it wasn't as concerned as his sister's, it was evaluating her, sizing her up.

_Like I'm his prey. _Maggie realized. Yet, despite this, she knew she'd seen him before, somewhere, not at all registering in her addled brain at the moment, and that while she should be frightened, she wasn't frightened of him. She was alive, likely because of him, and she hadn't been shot, restrained, or otherwise harmed in any way since she'd jumped off the table she'd been on.

"Where am I?" She asked shortly, looking past Steve to the man.

"You are In Wakanda."

All of the synapses in her brain fired at once, and like a pot of coffee and a kick in the teeth, she realized who she was addressing. "Making you T'Challa, King of Wakanda."

The man nodded graciously. "I am. This is my sister Princess Shuri." The King said, taking several steps toward her. "How are you feeling, Ms. Ramirez?"

"In all due respect, your highness, confused," Maggie answered shortly, glancing between Steve and the monarch, waiting for Steve to pipe up with some kind of explanation. Instead, Steve looked tense as he eyed her warily, almost expectantly, as if he was waiting for her to lunge or make a move that might threaten the King or his sister, which didn't make any sense. The bombings at the UN, the ones that had killed King T'Chaka, had been initially pinned on James Barnes. It had been a huge international stink, and one of the many reasons she'd gone into hiding. Sure, later, it had come out that it had been some guy named Zemo, but it still didn't make sense that Steve would be here.

"I imagine that you are."

"So, how does this work? I ask questions, and you answer them, or am I supposed to wait for you to deliver a monologue?"

Something approximating an amused expression crossed the King's face, but it did nothing to relieve the palpable tension in the room. "I would be interested to hear what you know, Ms. Ramirez, before I bore you with a monologue."

Maggie glanced over at Steve, doing her best to convey _'what the fuck is going on?' _In a single glance, before returning her full attention to King T'Challa. "Well, I take it, you're the people who pulled me out of Juarez. With that thing." She motioned to the suit on the mannequin a few feet away, which, now upon further inspection, looked like a catsuit.

Maggie paused, taking a moment to look around the room before she put her left hand down where the bullet wound should have been, rubbing it gingerly. Steve was here, meaning that Steve was allies or associates with King T'Challa, even though Steve Rogers, James Barnes, and Sam Wilson were international fugitives under the Sokovia Accords. They were friendlies, or close to it because otherwise, it would have been politically expedient to let her die in the streets of Juarez. But they hadn't. Therefore the information that she had was valuable, dangerous, or both to the Wakandans.

Taking a deep breath, she locked eyes with the King, "And if I'm going to guess, I'd say that I'm here because of James Barnes, aren't I?"

There was a beat of silence. Steve shifted his weight, glancing back and forth between her and T'Challa. She was right. Maggie knew she was right. Steve's poker face was for shit. She'd said that man's name, and his expression had changed. Not that it became softer, by any stretch of the imagination, but there had been a slight twitch if it could be called that. Whether it was satisfaction or displeasure, Maggie likewise couldn't say for sure.

"What makes you think that, Ms. Ramirez?" T'Challa inquired, his expression and tone giving away nothing.

"Because he's here." Maggie pointed at Steve, "And I'm here, and you wanted me alive for some reason." She felt that her logic was sound. The connection between her and Steve was Barnes. That's what had gotten her into this mess in the first place, and seemed to be a reoccurring theme in her life. It was why she had left the country. It was why she had hauled around her journals the entire time. Maggie paused, her heart stopped momentarily, and her eyes went wide. "My bag." She gasped.

"It is here, and all of the contents are accounted for." The King answered calmly, motioning behind her.

Maggie turned and saw that her bag was indeed sitting untouched on a workbench. Stained with blood, dirt, and lord knew what else, but it was there, intact. Walking over to it, Maggie, picked it up and unzipped it. All of the contents were there, undisturbed, and in the place she had left them. Looking up, she met the gaze of the King and Princess. "Thank you." She said graciously.

"Of course." T'Challa nodded. "We have a room prepared for your use in the palace for the duration of your stay. You may retire there now if you wish, but my advisors may have some questions for you about the Network and will wish to speak with you in some length. I'm sure you and Captain Rogers have a lot to talk about. A lot has happened since your disappearance in June. He will want to brief you on what you've missed since then."

Maggie nodded as her brain tried to process what she was hearing. "So, James Barnes _is_ the reason I'm here." She said as conclusively as she could manage. She needed an answer, a straight answer, and if she had to keep asking repetitive and even asinine questions to get an answer, she'd keep trudging along.

"Yes," T'Challa answered simply.

_Finally. A straight answer._

"And how long am I here for?" Maggie asked, pushing her luck further. The phrase, 'for the duration of your stay' had a convenient sort of _vagueness_ to it that Maggie really wanted to clarify before things went any further.

"For the foreseeable future. Or until the information you possess becomes irrelevant."

_For the foreseeable future?_

The phrase echoed in her head a thousand times. They were holding her here. She was being held here. This was witness protection 2.0. This was being locked in the tower with a security detail that followed her everywhere. This is what she had just spent the last two and a half years trying to find a way out of, to now find herself in the exact same situation. Only this time, she was being held by a nation's sovereign. It was kidnapping. It was abduction.

_They did just save you from the cartels. _

But that didn't matter. She probably would've died had they not intervened, and that would've been okay too. Better than being stuck, better than being _held_ in any location she didn't choose to be. "So, I'm being detained here." It came out sharper than she'd meant it to, but it needed to be said.

"It is in our interest to keep you away from parties who might use you as leverage." The King of Wakanda replied smoothly. "But if you wish to leave, we will not stop you."

_Where would I go? _She would've asked, had it not been entirely laughable. Where could she go? Join Sam and Steve on the run? She'd been on the run for three months and had gotten shot twice. That wasn't sustainable or doable in her case. She wasn't a super. She wasn't a soldier. She didn't have powers or a wingsuit. What was she going to do? She couldn't leave and go back into hiding, not unless she wanted to spend the rest of what would be a very short life in a government holding cell. Trapped. She was trapped. "Is James Barnes in the country?"

"Does that make a difference?"

_Yes, it did. _

Maggie couldn't help but think about the journals, and the photographs, and everything that she had carried with her through her time in Juarez. _Yes._ She needed to finish this, needed to come face to face with James Barnes, and hand over everything she had learned about him, everything that she knew, everything that Becca had told her. If for no other reason than to wash her hands of him and get closure after two and half years of spending almost every waking minute thinking about him, and trying to track down where he was. She could live her life, even confined, once she'd done that. "Yes." She said simply.

"He is."

Maggie nodded, swallowing hard. She didn't need to know the exact circumstances of his arrival in the country, or why he was still here, that was something that hopefully Steve could fill her in on once they'd left the presence of the royal family. She just needed some basic facts. "Has James Barnes been briefed as to my situation?"

"He has, yes." T'Challa nodded.

Maggie said nothing. So he knew she was in the country. What exactly he knew about her, and her relationship to Becca, Steve, Nat, and Sam was a different story, and could be solved at a later date. The facts remained she was going to be in Wakanda for the foreseeable future, and James Barnes knew about it. "Will I be permitted to leave the palace?" She inquired.

"As I said before, you are not being detained here. Ms. Ramirez."

"But I'm not being given anything to do, in the palace. So can I leave it?" She replied.

The siblings exchanged glances before looking at Steve and then her. "I don't believe I follow," T'Challa said shortly.

Maggie sighed, suddenly feeling very tired. "I don't wanna be stuck inside." She said weakly. "While I appreciate a room in the palace for my personal use, I'd prefer something rural where I can be around animals and nature. I've always worked with my hands, and if I'm going to be here for the foreseeable future, I would like to be able to put my time toward something _productive._ And I don't see that being as much of an option if I'm cooped up in the palace."

T'Challa nodded firmly. "I see." He frowned thoughtfully, looking out toward the windows, where the mining was taking place a moment before he turned back to her. "I will see what can be done to secure you a place to live and work out in the countryside. As I am given to understand it, you worked with horses on your ranch back in the United States. Correct?"

"Yes." Maggie nodded.

"Then I will speak with the appropriate people to find you a position out in the grasslands."

"Thank you, your highness." She said, as graciously as she could manage. She should be thankful. He didn't have to do any of this. He didn't have to let her in his country or give her a place to live and work. He could've let her die in Juarez. It, all things being equal, could be worse.

"Of course."

"I do have a few more questions." Maggie continued.

"I am sure you do, Ms. Ramirez, but first, you should rest. Then, when the time is appropriate, you may ask all the questions you want. Though, if you get an answer is a different matter entirely."

_Of course. Naturally. _She surveyed the two Wakandans and then glanced at Steve. She wasn't going to get much farther than she already had, at least not today. "Can I know who saved my life? And who patched me up? I'd like to say thank you." She managed wearily.

"I will pass along your thanks to the appropriate parties," T'Challa said shortly. "But for now, I think you should get some rest. You will be staying in the same apartment Captain Rogers used. He can show you the way, or I can have on my guards escort you, whatever you prefer."

Maggie wasn't sure if that was a threat or an offer, but glancing at Steve found that he was watching her intently. She couldn't tell what the King meant by it, but having Steve by her side was far preferable than any sort of King's guard, regardless of intention. "I think Steve will be more than enough. I don't want to be any more trouble." She said.

"Of course. It was good to meet you, Ms. Ramirez, I only wish it had been under better circumstances." T'Challa said.

_Yeah, Me too. _"Thank you again for your generosity, your highness. I hope in time I may come to repay it."

"Of course." He nodded. "Captain, Ms. Ramirez, good day." He said before turning to leave.

Wordlessly Steve picked up her backpack and took her by the elbow, leading her silently through the research compound, out into the bright sunlight. Crossing a long bridge, they entered a lift that transported them to a series of apartments. Eventually, Steve stopped outside one of the many identical-looking doors and removing a key card swiped in front of the sensor. Holding the door open for her, Maggie stepped inside and waited for Steve to follow. Only when the door had closed securely behind him, did she turn to look at him directly.

"Steve, I ask this with all due respect, what the _fuck?_" Her voice was shaking. Her whole body was shaking. She may have been out of the world for three months, but absolutely nothing that had happened in the last twenty minutes had made any sense whatsoever. She wanted to scream, wanted to shout, wanted to punch and hit and bite and scratch and do anything and everything she could to get out of the situation she was in, but one look at Steve's face, Maggie realized that it wouldn't do one ounce of good.

"I know. I'm sorry." He said slowly after a long silence. "Let me make you some lunch while you shower, and then I'll explain everything. If I can, I'll try to get into contact with Sam too. He'll be happy to hear from you."

At the mention of Sam, her whole body softened, the tension easing slightly from her shoulders and back. Maggie nodded. "Okay. _Fine_." She couldn't argue with food, shower, or answers from either Steve or Sam.

So without further protest or inquiry, she ventured into the bathroom to turn on the water.

She took a nice long shower in the apartment's bathroom, while Steve made grilled cheese and tomato soup. Then only after they'd eaten did Steve tell her everything or everything that he could. The bombing, the chase through Romania, the triggering in Berlin, the fight at the Leipzig airport, he and Barnes's escape to Siberia, Sam's capture, his and Barnes's fight with Tony, T'Challa's offer of help, Steve's rescue of Sam and the others, Barnes's stint on ice, and of course what they'd been up to in the meantime. Concluding with the briefing with the Wakandans, Steve called Sam, and she and Sam talked for a good hour and a half before Sam was called away, and they had to say goodbye.

Handing the phone back to Steve, Maggie realized she hadn't retained much of what she'd just heard. The basics, at the very least, but her whole body felt numb, and the world around her was dull and fuzzy.

"I'll let you get some rest. I should probably head back out to the village."

"Village?" Maggie echoed, rising to help Steve clear away the dishes.

"Bucky is staying out there. For the time being."

"So, he really is here." She said blandly as if she hadn't just spent the last few hours hearing that exact thing.

"Yeah." Steve nodded. "You okay?" He asked.

Maggie sighed, shaking her head. She looked around the room. It looked clinical, like a hotel room, as if it had been made just for their particular American sensibilities. It was nicer than anywhere she'd stayed at in over three months. Still, there was a particularly sterile feeling to the entire place, even perhaps more so than the Wakandan laboratory. But it lacked personality or any sense of personal touches. If she was honest, it reminded her of the flat back in Avengers tower, or the rooms she'd occupied in the Avenger's Compound. "I don't know." She admitted after a moment. "I think I just need to get some rest and get my feet up under me. Once I get my bearings, I'll feel better, I think." She smiled weakly, more to reassure Steve than as an indication of how she was feeling.

"I'm sure of it, and if you need anything, I'm a call away." He removed a string of beads from around his wrist and set them on the side table. "They're Kimoyo beads, Shuri asked me to give them to you. You can make a call if you tap this one." He motioned to a particular one. "And say my name," Steve explained quickly.

She nodded. "Okay, sounds good."

"Get some sleep if you can." He said, moving toward the door, paused, before returning to where she stood and gave her a big hug. "It's good to know you're safe."

"Yeah." She said, returning the embrace. "Safe." She concluded distantly.

He pulled away and surveyed her carefully, concern on his features. "And really. Call if you need me."

"Will do Steve." She paused, glancing at her backpack on the bed and then up at Steve. "Tell Barnes I need to talk to him. At his earliest convenience."

Steve looked at her uncertainly. "I can do that. Are you going to be okay?"

"Yeah." Maggie nodded wearily. "I just need to tie up some loose ends."

"I understand," Steve said. "When you're ready, I can make an introduction." He gave her another quick hug. "Until then, get some rest."

"Thanks." She waved as he left the room, the door locking behind him.

Maggie sighed, exhaustion clouding her thoughts and making every movement a labor. She turned to the bed and winced. As enticing as it was, even she knew that sleeping in a bed was out of the question. After sleeping on basically the ground for close to three months, there was no way she'd be able to sleep on a mattress.

Dragging the blankets from the bed, she positioned the pillows on the rug near the large sliding glass door and wrapped herself amongst the bed linens before lying down on the floor. She'd started her day in Juarez, preparing to pull four girls from the cartels. What had happened to them, she didn't know. Had they made it safe? Had the Maria pulled through? She didn't like to think too hard about it. Now she was sitting here, somewhere _safe_ while there were still people out there who weren't.

_I should be dead._

The thought drifted through the thick fog that clouded her murky mind.

_But you aren't._

So what was she going to do? How could she possibly deal with the fact that once again, she was starting over? Once again, James Barnes had put her in a situation that she didn't have a way out of. How was she going to come face to face with the man who had ruined her life now just about three times?

_When you're ready, I'll make an introduction._

That's what Steve had said. Would she ever be ready? Could she ever be ready? She didn't know. But as Maggie faded in and out of slumber, one thing was certain. She needed to hand over the journals, and wash her hands of the entire mess. The quicker she did that, the faster she could move on, and the faster she could figure out what the hell she was going to do with her time, now that she was stuck in Wakanda for the foreseeable future, with the man who was responsible for at least two out of the six worst moments of her life.

* * *

I hope you all enjoyed it! Ahhh. They're in the same place! Next chapter we get their first interaction. It is...something else is all I'll say. Also, as you can see from the recommended listening today, my brain was in a very specific place, and I hope that it came through at least someone in the writing of this chapter. Thanks for reading, feel free to drop a line, comments/reviews are always appreciated! Happy reading!


	33. Don't Shoot the Messenger

Author's Note: Marvel owns what it owns, and I own what I own, let's keep it that way shall we? Don't Sue me!

Recommended Listening: We Three (My Echo, My Shadow, and Me) by The Ink Spots; I've Got You Under My Skin by Frank Sinatra; Circle by Slipknot

* * *

Chapter 33-Don't Shoot the Messenger

Magdalen Ramirez had been in Wakanda for three days. Steve had been gone for about 24 hours.

"_Maggie wants to talk to you."_ Steve had announced when he'd returned from the capital after she'd been pulled from Juarez.

Steve hadn't supplied further information, as if waiting for some kind of response before he continued. _"Did she say why?" _He'd asked after a moment.

_"Wanted to tie up loose ends."_

Well, that could mean anything.

"_I'll take care of it."_ Steve had replied when he hadn't said anything further.

Take care of it? Take care of what? This wasn't a fight your way out of it type situation. Although exactly what type of this situation was remained to be seen.

She'd taken the news well, according to Steve. Though, what _"well_" meant in this context, Bucky didn't know.

Whatever _"well" _meant, she hadn't been happy about the prospect. Though Bucky couldn't imagine anyone being happy told that they were being confined because they were a security threat. How Steve had expected her to take everything, he didn't know. The guy still didn't think things all the way through. Leap first, make sure you have a goddamn parachute while you're plummeting toward the ground.

"_I'll take care of it_," Steve had repeated when he'd been packing to head back out to rendezvous with Wilson.

_"You really don't have to Steve. I'm more than capable of handling it." _He'd assured Steve.

After all, Steve had said she only wanted to talk.

_Yeah, the woman who's life you ruined just wants to talk._

So what were his options? He could avoid her until they absolutely couldn't anymore. Or he could try to set up a meeting to where they could talk.

Thus far, his only solution had been to put it off, which felt an awful lot more like option one than he cared to admit.

_Are you frightened of her?_

Physically? No. But this was someone who was stuck here indefinitely and had also enjoyed unlimited and likely unrestricted access to information about his past, including being directly involved with not one, but three key people from his past. There was a lot she likely knew, and Bucky wasn't sure how he felt about it.

What he did know is if he didn't resolve this soon, it wasn't going to end well for anyone involved.

"Breathe, Mr. Barnes." Princess Shuri's voice pulled him back.

He was lying on her examination table. Just above his head, he could hear The Princess working, the bangles around her wrists jingling together as she moved her hands, manipulating the real-time holographic projection of his brain.

"Sorry, Princess." He said, taking an exaggerated breath in part to make a show of willing, but also because he _had_ been holding his breath.

"You were very deep in thought," She commented as she continued working. "How are you feeling? What are you sensing?"

Bucky paused, running his tongue over his teeth. "You're making me taste mint, aren't you?" He asked after a moment.

"It was either that or pine smell," The Princess replied. "But that means your primary olfactory cortex is working like it's supposed to."

"How does it look?" He asked uncertainly. He'd done this several times now since he'd come out of cryo. But every time he was always worried that something new would present itself and send them back to square one. Thus far, no such calamity had occurred, but there was always a first time for everything.

"Your brain? It looks excellent, very wrinkly and grey and fatty," She answered. "Would you like to see?"

"I trust your judgment." He paused.

"What?" She asked, putting her hands on her hips, extended her head into his field of vision so that he could just see your eyes. "I know you have something to say."

He paused, licking his lips. "Just a hunch. But you knew about Ramirez from my memories."

"Yes?"

"So, you saw my time at the ranch?"

"Not as such. I do know, however, that those memories are coded positively in your base memory. Why do you ask?"

"Just curious." He chewed on the inside of his cheek. They were positively coded. Did that mean that she could see what he was feeling in the display overhead? If he looked up, would he be able to see his own array of emotions?

"What's going on?" She asked, in the universal tone of younger siblings up to no good.

Bucky sighed. There were no secrets from The Princess, even if he wanted there to be. It would be better to get it done and over with than to drag this thing out any more than he already had. "Steve mentioned before he left that Ramirez wanted to speak with me. I don't know how to get ahold of her. Is there any way you could...you know..."

"Broker an introduction? Facilitate a rendezvous?"

Bucky rolled his eyes. "Set up a meeting so we can speak," He said shortly.

"Facilitate a rendezvous sounds so much more _exciting._"

"I thought you warned me to stay away from too much excitement." He replied.

"Stimuli, yes, excitement no. You could use a bit of excitement in your life."

"I don't think Ramirez is going to bring the kind of _excitement_ into my life that you're thinking of, Princess."

Excitement was really the last thing either of them needed presently. He'd had enough excitement to last a lifetime, more than two lifetimes if he was honest. As for Ramirez, there was no telling what she had endured in Juarez, never mind during the two years she'd worked to hunt him down.

His mind and memory returned to the photograph, the photograph in the obituary. Ramirez had known his sister well enough to be included in a family picture. _They were friends. Your sister loved her. Maggie took Becca's death hard._

After the last two and a half years they'd both had, they didn't need excitement, they needed closure, and he needed answers.

What had Ramirez told Becca? What had Becca told her? Beyond just that, she'd also been heavily involved in tracking him down. What had she learned? How much did she know? Did she know about his time training the Black Widows in the red room? His relationship with Romanoff? Did she know about everything that he'd done and had been done to him?

Furthermore, what did knowing all of that do to a person like Ramirez? Do to someone who set out to fix the world? What would she think of him if she knew all that?

"How is your memory and remembering coming along?" She inquired, oh so very non-conspicuously changing the subject.

"Fine." He answered shortly. There were still gaps, large ones. Princess Shuri had warned him that there might be some parts of his memory that he would never get back, but as far as he was concerned, it was a small price to pay in exchange for his freedom from Hydra.

"So, do really want me to set up a meeting for you?" She ventured slowly.

Bucky sighed, squeezing his eyes shut. Did he want to? No. Not really. But did he need to? Yes. He absolutely owed her the courtesy of a face to face meeting, where she could do whatever she needed to do and say what she needed to say to tie up loose ends, as Steve had said. Would that give him the answers he was looking for? Would he be able to ask that of her when the time came? He didn't know. But unfortunately, he also knew nothing would happen if he didn't ask The Princess to reach out to her and make a plan to meet.

"Yeah. Ask her when she's available."

"She's staying in the village with Jelani and Teela. She should have pretty open availability."

"The horse breeders? Omondi's friend?"

"Omondi is friends with everyone, but yes, the Jelani that breeds horses."

So their paths were going to cross. More frequently than previously anticipated. This, unfortunately, made their meeting all the more imperative. The longer he waited, the more awkward it was going to be when he showed up on feed delivery day.

"Just let me know what she says."

"Of course." The Princess paused, with a thoughtful, almost mischievous air.

"What? Princess?" Bucky cracked one eye open and raised an eyebrow.

"You should not be so nervous about speaking with her."

"It's been a long time, and I did leave her for dead," Bucky said flatly, doing his best not to sound totally dramatic.

"A lot has happened since then."

This was fundamentally true, although Bucky would argue that nothing _good_ had happened to her since then and that most of her misfortune had been in some way or another explicitly linked to him. However, that ultimately wasn't up to him to decide. Whatever Ramirez thought of him or wanted of him was neither here nor there. The only thing he could do right now was arrange to meet her at her earliest convenience so that whatever needed to be said or done between them could be resolved quickly.

"All right! You're all done. Same date and time next month?" She announced happily.

"Sounds like a plan." He groaned, wincing as he sat up on the examination table.

"Unless something changes."

"Unless something changes." He agreed, adjusting his scarf before combing his fingers through his hair, swinging his legs over the edge of the table.

"Good. Have a good day, Bucky, and try not to worry too much. Magdalene Ramirez does not wish you any harm."

"I'll be sure to keep that in mind, thank you, Princess, for everything."

"Of course, white boy. Now get back to your goats, I will let you know what she says when I get word from her about when she can meet." She said before shooing him out of the lab.

_Try not to worry too much._

How did she know? Well, she had seen the inside of his head. She knew his mind probably better than he did. But he was concerned, worried, anxious. Was he cueing off of Steve's anxiety about the whole thing? Or was there some deeper reason that he was anxious to come face to face with Magdalene Ramirez? He wasn't sure.

What could he honestly expect from her? What did he want to say to her when they finally were face to face after two years? For a majority of that time, he'd thought she was dead. He had mourned for her, done research on her, and knew a lot more about her than he really felt comfortable admitting. How could he possibly enunciate all of that? Could he, in fact, say any of that? Would she want to hear any of it? Should he even bring it up? The possibilities raced through his already aching head until he felt like his whole world was spinning.

Relief, however, came Before he could make it back to the village, The Princess messaged him, letting him know that Ramirez had agreed to meet with him at 10:00 am, at her place, just outside the horse village.

He responded that he would be there. Then it was done. He had a meeting set, and there was nothing more to do than sit and wait, leaving him alone with his thoughts and his goats for the rest of the long afternoon into the evening.

_What could she possibly mean by tie up loose ends?_ He couldn't help but wonder, and would this interaction bring them closure? Or would it only invite more questions, complications, and difficulty?

The following morning he arrived on the outskirts of the village ten minutes early and found Ramirez outside one of the dwellings on a low stool, with a cup of coffee in hand and a journal open on her lap. She looked as if this was the most normal thing in the world. Like she had always been living in this remote and highly secretive African nation. As if she had always been apart of this village. Her hair was up, braided, and wrapped around her head. She was wearing a plain light-colored button-down shirt, and dark trousers tucked into boots. They weren't the western style boots she'd worn On Last Chance, but the effect was the still the same. She looked like she'd walked directly from one of his memories. Yet, there was something sharper, more severe about her features, a weathered, aged expression on her face as she read the contents of the journal on her lap.

"You're early Mr. Barnes, would you like some coffee? I made a whole pot." She commented without looking up.

"No, thank you, Ms. Ramirez." He replied.

At this, she looked up, surveying him with those dark eyes that had haunted his dreams and floated in his memories. She took stock of him, what she was learning, he could only guess, but satisfied with her findings, she nodded, closed the journal and rose, turning to face him. "I'm glad to see you're doing well." She cut herself off, "Better than the last time I saw you anyway." She amended. "Been a bit of a wild ride since then for me. I can only imagine you've gone through some shit since we last saw one another." Her gaze drifted, only momentarily to his left shoulder, where the prosthesis should have been.

Pausing, she drew in a deep breath. "I don't know what Steve told you or what you've worked out on your own, but I worked with him, Samuel Wilson, and Natasha Romanoff to track you down after I left the ranch." She paused, her fingers fiddling with the pages of the journal she was holding. "I also had the incredible experience of getting to know and becoming friends with your sister before she passed away." She reached behind her, and collected a further two journals, holding the stack of three of them in both hands. "I kept very detailed records. They're in a code Natasha taught me, but I think you'll be able to decipher and understand, but I included a cheat sheet just in case. I thought it was only fair that you should have them. That way, you know what I know. Know what I found out while I was helping them track you down." She took several steps toward him to close the gap between them, and then when she was arm's distance away, extended the set to him.

He took them wordlessly, his eyes flickering to her left hand, the hand that had been in a cast in the group photo, and couldn't help but notice the scarring on the appendage. _Hydra._ He could feel his stomach twinge. So it had been torture then.

"Thank you." He managed after a moment, looking up to meet her silent and watchful gaze. "Is there anything else?" His voice felt harsh as he said it, but if Ramirez took notice, she didn't show it.

"No." She shook her head. "That's all."

He nodded, uncertain of what to say. Wasn't there something? Anything? That she wanted to say to him? Was this all she'd meant by tie up loose ends? Wasn't there something more than this that she wanted to say or do after everything that had happened?

"I'm sure we'll see one another around. Princess Shuri tells me you're working with Elder Omondi in the village over, minding goats." She said quickly, as she returned to her seat, and her coffee.

"I'm also bagging and transporting feed." He added. "Elder Jelani has a standing order every Tuesday." He said, more out of a need for transparency than actually wanting to make conversation.

"So, we'll be running into one another with some regularity, then." She commented. Her expression and tone were decidedly neutral.

"You're out here with the horses."

"Yes, although I haven't officially received my a position yet. Have you enjoyed your time out here so far?"

"It's nice out here. Peaceful," was the only thing he could think of to say.

"I'm sure it'll be a nice change of pace." She agreed.

Bucky didn't know what to say, and they drifted off into a tense silence.

He wanted to say something, wanted to apologize, wanted to say thank you for protecting him, for helping Steve, for being a friend to his sister when he hadn't had the courage to go to her. He wanted to, but the worlds felt hollow in his mind, even as he formulated them. He wanted closure, he needed closure, but just as he opened his mouth to speak, he chickened out. "I'll let you get back to your coffee." He managed finally. "Thank you again, for the journals."

"No problem. I hope they help. See you around."

"Yeah, see you around."

And that was that. He walked away, journals in hand, feeling more bewildered and confused than he'd been before, with even more questions, and feeling somehow even more like a coward than he had before.

He should've said something. He should've said sorry. He should've asked about Becca, or asked for her forgiveness. He should've done something other than just stood there like a moron.

Bucky wound through the Wakandan countryside, confused and perplexed, and feeling oddly let down. Shouldn't there have been something said about the fact that he'd ruined her life? Wasn't this supposed to bring closure? That's what this had been about, right? Closure, for both of them.

Perhaps the answers he was looking were in the journals. Perhaps she didn't want anything to do with him, and so the best way was to hand over the journals so he could see the full extent of what she thought of him without the mess of a conversation.

Yet, she'd been so cordial. Well, of course, she would be, if not for Steve, then because they would be in close contact with one another for the foreseeable future. Still, he couldn't help but feel that something was terribly terribly wrong about that entire interaction. That something had been off about the entire thing.

Bucky didn't know.

When he arrived back to his hut and sat down, setting the journals out in front of him, Ramirez had labeled them 1,2,3, and he opened the first one hesitantly, uncertain of what he was going to find. Inside the front cover was a letter. Unfolding it, he found it was in plain English, her tidy handwriting curling out and unfurling before him. It read:

_Dear James,_

_ Let me start by saying sorry if the informality is unwelcome or unwarranted, but honestly, I have no idea how I_ _'d address you. Matt seemed silly, even though it was the name I knew you by, and Bucky likewise seems too informal, considering you and I haven't met, not really. Therefore I reason, since James is the name you gave me that day in the outbuilding, it is the name that I will use to address you here._

_What follows in these three journals is a complete record of my journey to track you down. As we are just now truly meeting for the first time, the content of these journals may seem strange, invasive, and perhaps downright unsettling. I understand, and I apologize for any discomfort they might cause. Over the past two years, I have heard many stories and uncovered many highly classified documents detailing your life both before 1945 and the long journey you_ _'ve taken since. All of these accounts have varied in degree of intimacy, often divulging highly personal and sensitive information._

_I had two reasons for this when I first started this journal. Primarily I was doing all that I could to help Steve find you, and I had little thought of what the practical consequences of learning as much about you as possible would be. But then, at the time, I reasoned that I needed to know the man I was searching for. I needed to make him more than a name on paper or a face in a photograph. Through that, I built an idea of who I thought you were, which in retrospect, was both unwise and unfair for all parties involved. _

_Since your discovery in Romania back in June, I_ _'ve had some time to think about how best to proceed with both the knowledge I possess and how that concerns us. I came to the following conclusion. Who I am to Steve and who I was to your sister exists outside of what I am to you. You don't owe me anything, not your time, your friendship, your gratitude, anything unless you feel it is deserved or warranted. So much of your life, from how I've come to understand it, has been practically devoid of choice, so I wanted to give you this choice. _

_Finally, it must be stated that, above all, I am a receptacle of knowledge and memory, and that is what you will find in these journals. If my entries or annotations are inadequate or insufficient, I am happy to provide an explanation or elaboration upon request. _

_ Respectfully,_

_ Magdalene I. Ramirez_

Bucky set the letter aside, uncertain of what he should be feeling. It was an unemotional, practically clinical summation of their situation.  
_You don't owe me anything. _

So she didn't want anything from him. She only wanted to be honest about their situation. He wasn't sure if that was better or worse. It was a blank check, without a hint of good or bad, just there.

His focus then returned to the journals set before him. So. The question now remained, what did she know? He turned to the first page, and it was indeed in the code he and Natalia had developed while they were in Hydra together, and now it seemed Ramirez was fluent as well. Skimming through Ramirez's iteration of the code, he turned his full attention to the first journal.

The first pages were an evaluation of him, of their time together on the ranch. It continued to her first weeks working with Steve and Wilson. Every day was entered faithfully and included where they were looking, what documents she had found, and her progression with her Russian language training. There was the day she'd met his sister. "Asked Steve to tell me about Barnes, introduced me to Rebecca Barnes-Proctor," and then the entry listed everything they'd talked about, almost like a grocery list.

Through the journal, he was able to trace his journey alongside hers. It was a thorough and detailed account of her activities and what she was discovering about him, both as James Barnes and the Winter Soldier. It was jarring to see the two worlds, two perspectives, presented side by side, nearly oblivious to how starkly they contrasted one another.

Then. There was an entry in plain English, scratched through heavily, but he was still able to make it out. It read simply. "Becca is dying. Where the fuck are you, Barnes?" It was the only ounce of emotion he could squeeze out of the pages and pages of writing, and he could feel the visceral anger seeping from the pages into his skull. The entries continued, until again there was another entry in plain English, stating simply, Becca Barnes-Proctor 1929-2015. After that, there was a complete shift in entries. There were no longer "Bucky Barnes" factoids. Instead, it was information about the Winter Soldier. Not just what he had done, but also what had been done to him, in cold and unfeeling detail: The memory wipe, the prosthesis, the mind control (although without any key information). Eventually, the journal became more about Romanoff's lessons, with infrequent notes and entries about the continued search for his location.

Then, the journal ended abruptly with a single sentence. 'Barnes Found in Romania.'

And that was it.

He knew what she knew, which was both massive in scope and content. Yet, he still felt on edge. There was no hint of personal feelings about what she was writing or what she had learned. With the single exception of the crossed-out lines asking where he was when she'd found out Becca was dying, there was no emotion in her words.

In his own journals, Bucky recalled, there had been no emotion in what he'd written about what he'd remembered. He'd written at length about her and the other of the Winter Soldier's victims, and he'd done his best to keep editorialization down to a minimum. Just fact, just raw data.

But this...He glanced down at the journals spread across his lap...this was something else. When he'd been researching, he'd been looking for his past, but with Ramirez, it was like she had reached into his brain, into his memories into his past, and put it on display. He didn't know how to feel, or furthermore what he was supposed to do.

What did Ramirez think of everything she had learned? He didn't know and had gotten little help from anything she'd written or said. What had finding all of that outdone to her? What did that information do to people? He didn't even fully grasp what it had done...was doing to him, and he'd lived it.

He flipped through the journals again, slowly, and he examined the photographs that she had stuffed between the pages, the photo of him and Becca sitting on the front porch of his parent's house. She was wearing her favorite blue dress. He was in his dress uniform. He reached out and picked up the picture, surveying it carefully. Was that the man that Becca had remembered? He didn't know, nothing in the journals revealed anything beyond what Ramirez knew.

He returned that one to its place and flipped to the next photograph. It was one much more recently, November 11, 2014, Ramirez's birthday. Ramirez was smiling, addressing the camera directly, while Becca looked at her with this look of adoration on her face.

_They were friends. Your sister loved her. Maggie took Becca's death hard. _

Yet, Ramirez hadn't said anything about Becca at all to him, not in the letter nor in their conversation outside of her dwelling. With the single exception of, "Who I am to Steve and who I was to your sister exists outside of what I am to you."

But that didn't mean anything.

Bucky frowned. Perhaps he'd missed something. Perhaps there was more to uncover. Spreading the letter and the journals and photos tucked inside out on a low table, he picked up a pencil and his own journal and started again.

* * *

So they're finally in the same room together [so to speak], and it only took over 100,000 words to get them there! *Screams* I promise I won't wait that long again. I can't wait to show you what I have in store for them! I hope you enjoyed it! I look forward to hearing what you think! Reviews are always welcome and deeply appreciated. Thanks for sticking in there with me Peeps!


	34. Awkward Re-Introductions

Author's Note: Marvel owns what it owns, and I own what I own, let's keep it that way shall we? Don't Sue me!

Recommended Listening: Stuck in the Middle with You by Stealers Wheel; I Wanna Be Sedated by The Ramones; Tainted Love by Soft Cell; Twilight Zone by Golden Earring

* * *

Chapter 34: Awkward re-introductions

Maggie had been in Wakanda for one week and a day. It felt like a lifetime, which made it even harder for her to believe that she's survived in Juarez for three months. She'd been through a lot, and the last week felt muddled together in a soupy fog of exhaustion and uncertainty.

She'd spent her first two days in Wakanda cooped up in a conference room, surrounded by what Maggie could only assume was Wakanda's top brass, military and intelligence commanders (most of them women much to Maggie's surprise). She'd endured two twelve-hour days, answering questions, and providing as much information she could about the Network. They'd been thorough but gentle, which was all she could ask for in the circumstances. They'd even been kind enough to provide visual confirmation that the Maria and the three girls had made it to safety. The Maria was in stable condition and expected to make a full recovery, while the girls should be reunited with their families in the next 12 to 36 hours. Had the Wakandas provided medical care for the other woman? How close of a call had it been? Had there been something more going on that night?

Maggie didn't know, and she hadn't been at liberty to ask. She hadn't been very high up in the Network but had done her best to answer their extensive questions. She wanted to help keep the Network safe and secure, and the Wakandans seemed interested in the same ends.

When the Wakandans were finally satisfied that they'd extracted every last bit of useful information out of her, Maggie had been taken personally by the King and his royal guard out to her new home. She'd talked with the village chief, Jelani and his wife Teela, who had agreed to sponsor her in their village. It hadn't taken her long to move in, just her go-bag, and a few pieces of clothing that the Wakandans had been kind enough to give her, considering that her own clothes had been blood-stained and sporting bullet holes.

She'd been in the village less than twenty-four hours when the princess had contacted her. _'__Barnes wants to talk with you, whenever works best for you'_

Steve had left in such a hurry she was almost certain that he'd forgotten to mention anything to Barnes. So it had surprised Maggie that Barnes had reached out to arrange a meeting. Maggie had replied almost immediately, she and the Princess had set up the meeting time and place, and the rest, as they say, was history.

It had been four days since the handoff, and she was still stuck in that moment, replaying it over and over in her head. She'd been trying hard not to think about what had happened. She was trying not to think about a lot of things. However, she was only succeeding in making herself angry, frustrated, and exhausted.

The exhaustion couldn't be helped. She hadn't had much success with sleep in the capital, even on the floor. Maggie had achieved more marginal success in getting to sleep now that she was out here in the middle of nowhere. However, even when she managed to fall asleep, she'd been waking up in cold sweats, clutching her stomach, and screaming.

It was her brain, Maggie knew, her brain attempting to process what had happened while she was in Juarez. Not just what had happened to her, but what she'd done to stay alive.

It was PTSD. Maggie was aware that's what it was. She'd lived in near terror and constant danger for over three months, had shot and killed people, and had been shot and nearly killed herself. That was prime and fruitful territory for PTSD. This was, of course, not taking into account what she'd put herself through for almost two and a half years when she'd been searching for Barnes. The things she had learned about the Winter Soldier, she had carried them with her in her mind. All of the horrible, brutal, violent things that had been done to and perpetrated by him, they were all still with her, even as she'd tried her damndest to forget.

It was part of the reason she'd wanted to hand over the journals to Barnes. She'd hoped that perhaps it would allow her brain to recognize that her mission, when it came to that, was over. She'd done everything. She'd achieved her mission, her goal, she could let go. She could wash her hands of the entire situation.

_No. The deal was that if you found Barnes, you could go home._

Maggie paused, looking up and around at her surroundings. The gentle rolling grasslands dotted with clusters of trees under the looming shadow of the jungle and mountains above. Her eyes watered just looking at it. It was beautiful, but it wasn't home.

Maggie glanced around Jelani's workshop. It was like many other ferrier workshops that she'd seen, been in, and operated. It had a forge, an anvil, and all of the rasps, clippers, and hammers that any ferrier would need. It was tidy and organized. Just outside, there were the stocks, where horses would be secured to be shod. Yet, as Maggie looked around, it was unlike anything she'd ever seen. This was a Wakandan smith, and there were vibranium tools and devices that made shodding horses a hundred times easier, faster, and more effective.

She'd been shodding horses since she was sixteen, and had started learning far younger than that. So it had only seemed natural that she would be assigned to the head ferrier in Wakandan. Jelani was more than just a Ferrier; he was a vet, breeder, and helped to manage the horse herds around Wakanda. But for her part, Maggie was going to help with the shodding of the massive herds of Wakandan horses.

However, with the tremor and weakness of her left hand, it would've been nigh impossible for her to shod horses if they were doing it the western method. Fortunately, Jelani had taught her the Wakandan method, and she'd been able to perfect her technique in a single round of shodding. But she'd done the other method all of her life, and she was determined to be able to shod horses the way that her grandfather had taught her. She wasn't going to let a little thing like a crushed hand get in the way of that, which was why she was engaged in this stupid, futile task.

Maggie sighed, glancing back down at the horseshoe she was trying to bend to the correct shape.

She didn't need to do this. She had nothing to prove. She could do perfectly fine work with the Wakandan method. There wasn't any need or reason for her to strain herself trying to do something that was very clearly outside of her ability at the moment.

Her left hand was still shaking and the clamps were difficult to hold, making her hammer work shoddy, giving the shoe a wave, but she needed to do this. It was like the guitar thing. She'd tried and tried after three months of PT to pick the guitar back up. It had been painful and slow and damn near impossible. So she'd given up and passed the guitar along to Wanda, who knew how to play and had been in the market for a new guitar at the time. Doing this, shodding a horse, it was something pre "barn Matt" Maggie, pre-hydra Maggie could've done with her eyes closed. Only now, here she was, struggling, unable to do what had used to be a simple task. It was yet one more thing stolen from her, a part of her that she might never get back, no matter how hard she tried.

With a disgusted groan, Maggie set both the tongs with the shoe still attached and hammer on the anvil, and sunk down onto the bench a few feet away. Yanking off her gloves, she set them beside her, and buried her head in her hands, drawing in a few shuddering breaths.

_It wasn't fair. I did everything right. I shouldn't be here. I should be home._

Maggie knew that wasn't true. Natasha had warned her that if she proceeded past the point of no return she wouldn't be able to get out of this. At the time that had seemed nearly laughable, besides, it would be worth it in the end, being able to bring Becca's brother home to see his sister before she passed away. It would be worth it to find and bring Steve's friend home after seventy years of brainwashing and torture. The means had justified the ends. _What was the worst that could happen?_ She'd reasoned. She'd already been declared dead, and separated from her ranch. What could be worse than that?

Maggie snorted. _Dumbass. _

She'd been warned. She'd been warned repeatedly, and now she was paying the price. She wasn't just dead _legally_, but now in Wakanda, she was legally in _limbo_. She couldn't leave because any number of world governments would be happy to pick her brain, and then make her more than just dead on paper. Yet, Maggie couldn't help but balk at the fact that she'd been freer in Juarez of all places to choose her destiny than she was now.

She'd been happy in Juarez as much as anyone can be happy in a virtual war zone. She'd had a purpose and was making solid, effective change. And yeah sure, the cartels wanted her dead, but if the cartels didn't want you dead where you really being effective? The point being she'd been the master of her own fate for the first time in a long time, and had very purposefully not reached out to anyone to be "found" or "rescued." She didn't _want _to be found. She didn't _want _to be rescued. She'd been prepared to die to get those girls out. That was okay with her. She'd been doing what she thought was right, and wasn't being used by anyone.

Then somehow, James Barnes had dragged her back into this mess.

It wasn't his fault. Maggie knew that on a fundamental level. He hadn't asked to be framed. He hadn't wanted to be tortured and mind-controlled by Nazis for seventy years. Yet, Maggie found that she had focused all of her ire, all her anger, all of her pent up frustration on the man, and on a single phrase.

_Is there anything else?_

He may as well have asked, "Is that it?" As if her life's work over the past two years meant nothing. As if it was superfluous.

Truth be told, it hadn't meant a damn thing. It had taken a terrorist attack, and the worldwide manhunt to finally bring the Winter Soldier in. Everything she'd done, everything she'd learned, in the end, had meant absolutely nothing. To believe anything else would be nothing short of outright delusional. But it had meant something to _her. _Wasn't that worth anything?

_No. _

It wasn't worth anything, and he'd told her as much. The thought alone left a bitter taste in her mouth.

_It was supposed to be easier once we found him._ She wanted to scream. But nothing had been easier, not one single goddamn thing. Now she was _stuck_ here for the foreseeable future, and the one person with any point of familiarity was a man who had played a hand in ruining her life.

She wanted to talk to Sam or Natasha, or even Steve, someone, anyone who would or could provide insight and guidance on what she should do, or should even be thinking. She wanted someone she could confide in, who would listen, who wouldn't judge her for the shit she was trying to work through.

Lifting her head from her hands, Maggie wiped at her face and the tears streaming down her cheeks.

_How could I have been so stupid?_

Was it stupidity to want acknowledgment for her sacrifices and work? Was it stupid of her to think that maybe he might have some kind of reaction to seeing her for the first time in two years after she'd been declared dead by Hydra?

How long had he known that she was alive? Did he care? Had he given her a second thought after he'd left the ranch? Did he give a shit that she'd lost everything because of him? She didn't know, and it didn't seem like she would be getting that answer any time soon.

What was worse was that Maggie was a liar. She'd known she was a liar before, but now she knew for sure. She had told Barnes that she didn't want anything from him, and now she knew that was wholly and completely untrue.

_This isn't about me or what I'm feeling; this is about giving Barnes the information that I've collected on him. That doesn't need to be complicated by my feelings on the matter._

That's what she'd reasoned, that's what she'd told herself, that's what had gotten her through their interaction. But as soon as he'd walked away with her journals, as soon as he'd left with two years of her life and more horrible memories than she cared to think about, she knew she was lying to herself.

Maggie wanted to know if her sacrifice had been worth it. She wanted to know if the man she had sacrificed her livelihood, life, sanity, and freedom to had been worth it. She wanted to know if there was anything of the charming man who had been Becca's brother left. If something remained of the good, brave, and honorable man Steve Rogers loved and admired. If there had been a good person in the man, Natasha had known as the Winter Soldier. She wanted to know if anything she had learned about the person, rather than the weapon that Hydra had built and deployed with efficiency and deadly force, was still in there somewhere.

That's what she wanted. A response. An answer to that question. Yet, since she'd handed off the journals four days ago, she hadn't seen hide nor hair of James Barnes.

No news would've been good news in any other circumstance. Perhaps he hadn't read them. It was always a possibility that he didn't want to know what she'd found out or didn't care what she knew. That was always an option. One that he could choose to make. After all, that was what she'd written in her letter. Choice, she was giving him a choice.

_What about me?_ The selfish voice in the back of her head screamed. _Don't I matter? Don't I get a choice in this continuously fucked up situation?_

Maggie shook her head. It wasn't any use thinking like that. There was no point. It wasn't fair, and it wasn't right. She'd learned that a long time ago. It didn't matter how much she raged at the universe. It wouldn't change anything. No matter what she did, the universe would continue to spin on.

She wiped her face, pulled her gloves back on, and returned to work.

Maggie had only managed a few more hammer strikes when she paused at the sound of approaching footsteps and a wheeled cart.

Her stomach turned. _Fuck._

Turning, she found none other than James Buchanan Barnes walking up the path with a heavily laden mule cart.

_Speak of the actual fucking devil. _

He hadn't seen her yet, and Maggie was glad for the opportunity to give him a once over without those eyes boring into her, doing an evaluation of their own.

He was still broad-shouldered like he'd been On Last Chance, but now he walked without the familiar gait, due to the missing metal prosthesis. His hair was grown out and had been pulled back in a half up half down style. His face was fuller than it had been when he'd been on the ranch with her, and he had the beginnings of what could eventually be considered a respectable beard. His expression was firm, almost grim, as he walked up the winding path toward the feed barn and workshops where she was standing. He was wearing practical clothing like he'd been at their meeting at her dwelling: work boots, pants, a sleeveless button-down, and a scarf tied around his neck to hide the stub of what remained of the Winter Soldier Prosthesis.

Maggie searched and searched, looking for some scrap, some ounce of the man she'd seen in Becca's photographs or Steve's drawings, but only saw _Matt,_ the man in her barn, his eyes cold, and sharp and critical as they'd been before.

What had he seen in his evaluation of her the other day? She didn't want to know. Didn't want to know if she'd somehow managed to look even more like a sad husk of a human being than she already had been back when he'd known her on the ranch.

Then her mind turned to the next logical question. _Why is he even here?_

_The Cart. _Her brain supplied. _Fuck. Feed delivery._

Was it Tuesday already? Barnes had told here that he delivered feed to Jelani every Tuesday. Jelani had even mentioned that there was going to be a feed delivery today.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck._

Maggie froze. She couldn't deal with him, not like this, not right now, when she'd just been crying. Perhaps he hadn't seen her. Maybe she could duck out of his line of sight, and he'd just deliver the feed and go away.

_Now you're being stupid. You're a goddamn adult. You need to behave like a goddamn adult. Besides, if he's read the journals, you might get what you're after._

"What?" Maggie asked, and she realized that he'd spoken to her.

"I asked if Jelani was around," Barnes said evenly.

"No." Maggie managed. "No, He had to run into town. But he showed me where to put the feed."

Barnes nodded, moving wordlessly with the cart and mule to the feed shed. Maggie set the hammer and clamp down and joined him at the feed shed, swinging opened the door, they started to offload the cart into the shed.

Suddenly it was like they were back on Last Chance, and although he was now down a limb, still moved with a silent, deadly purpose.

_I must have been out of my goddamn mind. I should've called the cops on this guy the minute I saw him._ She couldn't help but think as she watched him out of the corner of her eye. _It would've saved me a helluva lot of trouble. _It was a terrible thing to think, something that she'd thought a lot in those dark days after Becca had passed. Something that she'd been thinking a lot over the past few days too. She wished she didn't think that, wished that she could be as selfless now as she'd been back when he'd been on the ranch with her. But the bitter little voice in the back of her head couldn't help but whisper all of the cold, bitter terrible things into her ear.

_He was sick and hurt, and in trouble, you did what you thought was right._

There she was, the little noble voice in the back of her head, feeble now, and very very small.

_Is there anything else? _That's what he had said when she'd handed over all that she had to show for the last two and a half years of her life.

And nothing she had done mattered.

"Can do." She auto responded, her mind filling in the blanks of the conversation. Maggie stopped. _No, that wasn't right._

Looking up, she found that Barnes was staring at her, a perplexed expression on his face.

Obviously, her response hadn't made any sense. _Fuck._ Her mind scrambled, trying to replay what her ears had heard, but that her brain hadn't processed.

"Heyi! White Wolf!"

Maggie was saved by Jelani, an older Wakandan man, wearing the now-familiar orange and black pattern of the plainsmen, his teenage son Sisay following behind him. Both of them were carrying heavy packs as they approached the workshop and shed.

"Come help an old man, White Wolf," Jelani instructed, waving him over.

They exchanged some rapid words in Wakandan, which Maggie didn't understand or speak as they unloaded the large packs. Maggie hesitated, uncertain if she should ask to be excused, wait for a dismissal, or just excuse herself.

"Heyi, Cowgirl!" Maggie's attention turned to Jelani.

"Ewe?" She stammered out in some of the only Wakandan she'd managed to pick up thus far.

"Grab the extra pair of goat hoof clippers and a good rasp." He said shortly.

Maggie nodded and wordlessly did as instructed, a furious, red hot blush rise on her cheeks. They were both watching her as she went into the workshop, and riffled around through the toolbox. Why was she embarrassed? She hadn't done anything wrong or even remotely embarrassing. It was because she was off balance and off-kilter. If this had been the ranch back home, she wouldn't feel this way. She'd be in control of herself and know what she was doing. But this wasn't back home. This wasn't her ranch or her workshop. Instead, she was a guest, a stranger, an employee. Not that's she minded any of that. She just knew that there were certain expectations of an employee rather than as someone self-employed doing the work they wanted.

She collected the requested items and returned outside, where Barnes and Jelani were still talking.

"Excellent, this will do well for Omondi. Tell him that he can borrow them, but I'll want them back before the end of the week." Jelani explained, taking the tools from her and placing them directly in the back of the mule cart that had previously contained the feed. "White Wolf, you have met Cowgirl before, yes?"

Maggie turned to the older man, who was watching them with intrigue.

"Yes," Barnes said shortly.

"Good. Good. I am leaving her in charge of my shop when I am out attending calls. My son is learning the trade, too, since he will take it over when he is old enough." Jelani clapped Sisay on the back, beaming with pride.

Maggie could feel her stomach sink with dread. The question hadn't been random. Nor had the follow-up statement. Jelani knew what he was doing. He wanted to see if they'd been introduced because she would be dealing directly with Barnes for the weekly feed delivery. She would be the one running errands, or around to answer questions, or whatever if and when Jelani was away from the village, which judging from what she had seen over the past few days was quite a bit. She would be dealing directly with Barnes regularly, and Jelani wanted to know if they would be able to do so. _Great._

How much did the old man know? How much had the Wakandas been told about the history between her and Barnes? Of course, they'd assume there was some sort of connection but had T'Challa or Shuri, or any number of the Wakandan military and intelligence brass given out a briefing packet? Or had they been left to assume and fill in the blanks on their own?

"That sound good, Cowgirl?" Jelani inquired.

Did she have a choice? Could she say no? Probably, but to what end? She was out here in the countryside rather than cooped up in a palace apartment by the good graces of the King and this man. What good would it do to be difficult? None absolutely none.

"Yeah." She nodded. "That sounds good."

Maggie glanced over at Barnes, who was watching her with those piercing blue eyes, cold and critical. _Say something goddamn it._ She wanted to scream. _Say something, acknowledge me! Acknowledge why I'm here! Acknowledge that you ruined my life, you bastard! _She wanted to shake him by the shoulders until she shook his head clean from his shoulders.

"Excellent. I will let you get back to your rounds, have a good day." Jelani told Barnes pleasantly.

"Thank you. I will pass the tools off to Omondi as soon as I get back. Have a good day." He said, directing his gaze at her. "Ramirez." He nodded simply.

"Barnes." She nodded again.

"See around then, White Wolf." Jelani waved him off, and they stood in silence as Barnes led the cart and mule away and out of sight.

So she was going to be seeing him with even more frequency than she'd initially expected.

_How the fuck am I going to manage that?_

Maggie didn't know. She hadn't been able to hold a conversation with the man, and she couldn't imagine it was going to get any better the longer things went on.

_It was supposed to be easier once we found him._

Her brain kept coming back to that thought, to that perceived truth that Maggie had built up in her mind the entire two and a half years that she'd been looking for the guy. It wasn't supposed to get harder. It wasn't supposed to be more complicated.

_It doesn't matter what it was supposed to be. This is it. This is the reality._ She decided finally.

Why didn't he say something? Say anything? It couldn't be that hard, could it? _"I read the journals. They were useful, thank you." _It wasn't that hard, was it? It could be something as simple as that.

She wanted _closure._ But then again, what she wanted wasn't important.

She shook her head, turning back toward the workshop. "You don't have a problem working with Barnes, do you?" She glanced over at Jelani, who was still watching her intently.

"No." She shook her head. _I can be professional. I can be civil. I can be goddamn chipper if I have to be._

"You and him have a history together," Jelani said, knowingly.

_Understatement of the millennium. _"Something like that," Maggie answered.

"Have you eaten lunch yet?" Jelani inquired, changing the subject.

Her stomach growled, answering the question for her.

"Come," Jelani said, clapping her on the back, Teela has made more than enough, you should take a break before the midday heat settles in too much."

Maggie nodded as he led her wordlessly toward his family's dwelling, which was situated under a large, lush cluster of trees.

This was all going to take some adjustment: the living situation, the working situation, the Barnes situation. Maggie was going to have to grin and bear all of it for a while until she got used to it, or it resolved itself. There wasn't any other choice, presently. Besides, if Barnes could act like there was nothing wrong, and that all of this was normal and peachy, then so could she. After all, she had said that she didn't want anything out of him, even if that was the absolute farthest thing from the truth.

* * *

Soooo what do we think? Personally, this chapter was difficult to write, but also super cathartic in some ways? Regardless, a classic case of miscommunication, and it's all gonna come to a head in chapter five (with good results, I promise I'm not stringing y'all along). I hope all of you enjoyed! Can't wait to hear what you think.


	35. Two Wrong Turns Don't Make a Right

Author's Note: Marvel owns what it owns, and I own what I own, let's keep it that way shall we? Don't Sue me!

Recommended Listening: It Never Rains, but What it Pours by Judy Garland; Under Pressure by Queen; It's Coming Down by Cake

* * *

Chapter 35: Two Wrong Turns Don't Make A Right

Bucky was sitting out in the pasture, the massive grasslands seemed to stretch on forever, and had grass so green it looked nearly blue in the bright sun. It had been over a week and a half since Magdalene Ramirez had arrived in Wakanda, almost a week since she'd given him the journals, and three days since he'd seen her at Jelani's during the feed delivery.

He'd re-read the journals at least a dozen times. He hadn't exactly been sleeping well and had been having more migraines. He wasn't sure if there was any connection between Ramirez and the uptick in headaches, but he did know that he was still missing something key that would help him answer a number of questions. The journal, the letter, the photographs, and even Ramirez herself were all telling him different things.

Bucky sighed, shaking his head, his eyes trained on his small herd of goats a dozen or so yards away. He wished Steve were here. Things might be easier if Steve was around to mediate, or not even mediate, just help translate what was going on so that he could understand how the hell he was supposed to respond. Ramirez, for her part, had been distracted, cold, and short with her interactions during the feed delivery. She'd also looked like she'd just been crying. Steve would've had more luck talking to her than he'd had recently. Though how effective Steve would've been in getting Bucky the answers he was looking for remained to be seen. This was the guy who's first reaction to Ramirez asking to speak with Bucky had been, "I'll handle it."

He'd wanted to ask about the journals, he wanted to say thank you, he wanted to apologize for ...well everything, but it hadn't seemed like the appropriate time or place. She hadn't seemed like she wanted to talk to him anyway, and she didn't owe him her time or energy, particularly after everything that she'd been through because of him. Anyway, Jelani had been around, and Bucky certainly didn't want to drag out his business with Ramirez in front of the Wakandans, if at all possible. If not out of respect for his hosts, then out of respect for Ramirez.

Despite himself, Bucky _did_ want to talk to her. He wanted to ask about the photographs she'd left in the pages of the journals, each tucked into the corresponding entry. The snapshot from Ramirez's birthday party had been of particular interest, the one of Ramirez and his sister. Had she meant to leave that in the journal, or had it been an oversight on her part? What did she know about his relationship with Steve or Romanoff for that matter? What did she think of what Hydra had done to him? What about what he had done?

His questions were endless, but that didn't mean she owed him an explanation.

It had taken him everything he had to not to walk over to the horse village in the middle of the night after he'd read through the journals a second time and found he had even more questions than after the first read-through. After all, Ramirez had said in her letter she was willing and able to answer any questions he might have. But just because she'd said she was willing, didn't mean that she wanted to, it didn't mean that he _should _ask. Besides, when would he have the chance to talk to her outside of when she was working or around Jelani, Sisay, or any of the other Wakandans? Would there ever be an appropriate time to talk about his sister, about his past, about their shared history? He didn't know.

Bucky grimaced, looking down at his journal, and tapped his pen against the blank page. He really should try to write it out in the journal. It might help him think through all of this mess before he inflicted it upon Ramirez. He'd been writing more since Ramirez arrived, mostly trying to piece together what he'd lost in the journals that had been confiscated in Berlin from what she had written in her own. She'd been very thorough, although admittedly she hadn't found out _everything, _or if she had, she'd kept it to herself and not recorded it in the pages she'd given him.

He stopped, pausing at the sound of unfamiliar footfalls. His mind raced as he slowly honed in on the sound, his eyes squeezed shut. It wasn't the kids. There wasn't more than one pair. It wasn't the King and the Dora, the King rarely ventured out this far, and never without a guard of some kind. Nor was it the princess. She had a sort of spring, skip to her step, and rarely wore hard-soled shoes, and it definitely wasn't Steve. Yet Bucky knew he had heard that particular gait before.

Looking up and opening his eyes, Bucky found Ramirez cutting across the field. She was about halfway between the two tree lines that framed the pasture when she stopped, turned around, and took a few steps. Then, she stopped again, shook her head, muttered something under her breath before she turned back around, marching back the way she'd come.

_She's lost._ He realized. _Shit. _How the hell was he going to announce his presence without causing a scene? He couldn't exactly just let her wander around the Wakandan countryside lost. Closing his journal and stowing it and the pen in his satchel, he rose to his feet. "You Lost?" He called, doing his best to project his voice without sounding like he was shouting.

Ramirez froze, before turning around to face him. "Hi." She said shortly.

"You lost?" He repeated as he walked toward her.

"I think I got a little turned around. Which way to Omondi's? Jelani sent me for the tools he let him borrow." Ramirez replied, her expression tense, her whole body coiled as if ready for an oncoming attack.

She was headed toward his village? She'd been walking in the opposite direction and was now over two miles away from where she needed to be. "Do you have your Kimoyo bracelet on you? I could mark a waypoint for you?" Bucky asked hesitantly.

"I don't."

Well, that made things more complicated. He'd either have to explain it to her and hope she got it right or he'd have to show her the way himself. Which, based on her body language wasn't something she'd be interested in doing. "You're about two miles away from where you need to be if you take the shortest path." He explained, "But the best-marked path is about three miles."

Ramirez exhaled sharply, looking down at the ground, muttering a few key curse words to herself. "So I am really lost then, aren't I?" She sighed, looking back up at him and addressing him directly.

"I can show you the way. I needed to head back that way soon anyway." He paused as the rumble of thunder interrupted him. "If there's a thunderstorm coming, you'd be better off coming with me anyway."

Something crossed her face, Bucky wasn't sure if it was anger or resignation, but it was only a momentary lapse in control that she had. Her features resumed their cool neutral expression before he could quite pinpoint what he was seeing, or rather what he wasn't seeing. "I don't want to bother you."

"We're going in the same direction." Bucky replied, "Although I do have goats with me, it might take a little bit longer."

There was a brief paused as she debated with herself before she answered evenly, "If you're already headed that direction, I can follow you."

There hadn't even been an uptick in her tone, no use of sarcasm, no angry drawl. Her tone was smooth, even, and controlled, controlled, of course, being the operative word. His eyes flickered only a moment to her hands, which were down by her side, and balled into fists. Ramirez was coiled, like a snake in the grass, like she'd been when confronting Roberts. Was she expecting a fight from him? No. Controlled. She was controlling her expression, her tone, even her body. Was she going to fight him? She was accepting his help. So that it couldn't be it, could it? Bucky didn't know, and as thunder continued rumbling overhead, he knew he needed to get the goats back to their hutch before the storm arrived. He didn't have time to guess what Ramirez was thinking at the moment.

"Follow me, the storm is moving fast, and we'll need to be out of the jungle before it arrives." He instructed firmly, picking up the stick he'd been using to prod the goats, though they generally had a mind of their own.

Ramirez nodded, following behind him in silence.

They walked through the field, collecting his small herd of six goats before they started down the goat path that would lead them the fastest back to the village. Ramirez didn't say a word as they walked, single file down the trail. The goats walked in front, and he followed, pushing them along. Behind him, Ramirez brought up the rear. She was keeping a good pace, walking five to ten yards behind him. Her breathing was even, her gait consistent. She didn't say a word.

_Now would be the perfect time to talk, middle of the woods, no Wakandans around, you're not going to get another chance like this._

Bucky wasn't stupid. Something was going on, and he got the distinct feeling that bringing anything up related to their history wouldn't end well, or at the very least, wasn't going to go the way that he would've wanted. Yet, at the same time, there was something expectant hanging in the air, as if Ramirez was waiting for him to say something. Waiting for him to ask. Waiting for some kind of misstep. Waiting for a reason to unleash the pent up fury behind her expression upon him.

He'd deserve it. There was no doubt about it, but the value of bringing down such wrath upon himself right now in the middle of the jungle seemed minimal. So although Bucky might deserve it, he didn't want to give her a reason to employ it, at least until they made it back to the village.

The thunder grew louder overhead, the crackle of lighting making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on edge. He picked up the pace, and wordlessly Ramirez matched it. Then the rain came, first as a light mist, before it started pouring down around them in thick heavy droplets, quickly soaking through his clothes and hair.

"You still with me back there?" He asked, without glancing over his shoulder at her, his focus primarily on his goat, and making sure they stayed together.

"Fine. Just great." She drawled, though her voice was barely audible over the sound of the downpour.

"Watch your step, the path is steep up ahead, and it's going to be slick with the rain," Bucky warned.

The goats ahead of him were light and nimble, and they moved easily, and quickly, despite the terrain and weather. Humans, on the other hand, were not quite as adept at navigating in the same conditions. The last thing either of them needed was to slip and fall and bust-

This thought was interrupted by a short scream and ample swearing. Stopping, he turned to see Ramirez on the ground, lying flat on her back

"You alright?" He asked.

"Damn it," She muttered, sitting up, rubbing the back of her head.

"You alright?" Bucky repeated over the sound of thunder.

"I'm fine," She bit out flatly, as she did an inventory of her physical state.

Bucky paused, doing an evaluation of his own. She didn't look to be seriously hurt. Upon initial scan, he didn't see any broken bones or blood, although if she did have something more severe than just a few scrapes and bruises, they'd be in a lot of trouble.

There was another low rumble of thunder, followed by lightning that flashed so bright it illuminated the entire jungle. They were getting ready to have several problems in a moment if they delayed any longer. "Can you walk?"

She looked up at him, her expression furrowed. "What?"

"Can you walk?' He repeated. "The rain's only going to get worse as the storm rolls through."

"I...I...don't know. Probably?" She grimaced. "I think. I think I twisted my ankle." She rose shakily to her feet, testing her ankle, she winced. Pausing, Ramirez looked up and met his gaze. "You don't have to wait. I'll be right behind you." She said firmly, putting her foot down solidly.

It was convincing, and Bucky almost would have bought it, if not for the fact that her whole body shook, and her face was sheet white as she took a couple faltering steps forward for good measure.

"Come on." She said, limping down the path. "As you said, this is only going to get worse. I'm fine."

"You shouldn't be walking on that ankle."

"Well, I don't exactly see any other choice, presently, Barnes." She replied through gritted teeth, barely forcing back a whimper as she applied more pressure than her ankle or pain tolerance could take.

He would've admired her stubbornness had he not been in the middle of an African jungle, in the rain, with six goats, one arm, and one very angry, frustrated woman. The ankle was going to slow them down, the Goats were going to get spooked the longer they stayed out here, and he couldn't very well abandon either party. He'd have one hell of a time explaining how and why they'd all been swept away in a thunderstorm. "Let me carry you."

Ramirez laughed a harsh, choked laugh. "Jeezus Christ. This is really happening, isn't it?" She shook her head before hobbling a few more feet. Stopping, she sighed, lifting her face to the canopy above, mouthing something under her breath before she looked back at him. "Fine." She said tersely, surveying him with a critical expression. "As you're down an arm, you're going to have to fireman carry my sorry ass, aren't you?"

Bucky had to hide his surprise. He hadn't had to convince her. He hadn't had to ask more than once or wait for her to fall again so he could scoop her up and throw her over his shoulder while she thrashed. All things being equal, this was going a lot better than he'd imagined it might have otherwise. "Sorry."

"We'll move faster that way. Can't exactly see me using you as a crutch." She sighed, wiping her face with the back of her sleeve, only smearing dirt and vegetation across her forehead. "Let's get this over with, shall we, Mr. Barnes?"

They talked through their plan of approach, and while they maneuvered awkwardly, Ramirez was deceivingly light and surprisingly cooperative. After a brief adjustment on the part of both parties, he was walking with her over his shoulders.

Trudging along in silence, watching his step, and keeping a watchful eye on the goats, Bucky was aware of the seething energy that was coming off Ramirez. She was trembling, from the cold rain that poured down around them, but there was palpable, visceral anger that filled the silence between them.

_Should I ask if something's wrong?_

No. That never worked well with dames. Not that Ramirez was a dame, but she certainly was angry, and asking her directly might not be the best way to defuse the situation at present.

_If I don't ask, then how the hell am I going to figure out what's wrong? _The best course of action for the moment would be to focus on the path and get them back to his hut safely. Once he got her back on her own two feet, then they could have that discussion. _Maybe._

"You still with me, Ramirez?" He asked.

"Mhh, Hmm." She mumbled. Nodding, she made no other motion.

"We're almost to my place. I can get the village healer to take a look at it when the rain lets up." Bucky continued feeling almost compelled to say something to the woman lying across his shoulders.

Ramirez didn't respond, holding perfectly still as he traversed the narrow, steep, and rocky path. He could hear her breathing, practically feel her heart pounding, her body tense, her hands clenched around a wad of his scarf. She was shaking. Bucky couldn't help but think about how close they were and couldn't help but be reminded of the last time they'd been in close proximity together. The small little outbuilding when she'd patched him up. He'd been afraid, terrified if he was honest, and had been moments away from losing all self-control and making a run for it. He could've hurt her. He could've killed her, even unintentionally.

_Is she frightened of me? _

Certainly anger had crossed his mind, she had plenty of reason to be angry, but fear? That, for whatever reason, hadn't occurred to him. She hadn't been frightened of him that day in the outbuilding, though she'd certainly had plenty of reason to be. A lot had happened since then. She knew more now about him than she had then. She didn't _seem_ frightened, but that could be for any number of reasons.

"This is okay, right?" He asked softly.

Ramirez shifted slightly, her breathing changed. "It could be worse," she chuckled humorlessly.

"Am I hurting you?" That's what she'd asked him, every step of the way.

"No." She shook her head. There was a pause, and for a brief moment Bucky was sure she was going to follow it up with something else, but the moment passed, and nothing else came.

Bucky said nothing. There was nothing more to be said.

When they arrived at his hut, he eased her down onto her feet, under the small awning. "I'm going to pen the goats in their hutch. You can head inside and try and get dry." He instructed

Without waiting for a response, he charged to the goat hutch, where all six of them had gathered of their own accord and were waiting for him to shut the door after them. "You're smart." He commented, glancing over his shoulder at Ramirez, who was leaning against the hut, trying to remove her boots. "Smarter than I am." He added.

Latching and securing the gate, he crossed the yard to where Ramirez was still struggling."It'll be easier when you're sitting," He motioned with his head to the interior, she shot him a cold look. "You can wait out in the storm if you like, but it'll warmer and dryer inside," Bucky said, taking a step back.

"I was trying to get my boots off, so I don't track mud into your living space." Ramirez bit out flatly.

"Wouldn't worry about it. It'll be easier once you're sitting down and somewhere with better light." He replied.

She surveyed him, her expression perfectly and completely even. "Why are you doing this, Barnes?"

"What?"

Ramirez snorted, shaking her head. "The man carries me down a goddamn mountain in the rain, and he asks what?" She muttered, rolling her eyes.

"I would've had a hard time explaining to Wilson, Rogers, and the Wakandans why I'd left you on the mountain during a thunderstorm."

"I'd imagine that would be tricky." Her voice practically dripped with sarcasm.

Which meant she still wasn't convinced. Bucky didn't know how to respond. "You helped me out of a tight spot once." _Then I left you for dead. _He couldn't help but add mentally. "I do owe you one."

"Right. That." The bitterness and anger in her voice were palpable. "I did say you don't _owe_ me anything."

"You're wrong."

"Really now?" Ramirez practically laughed.

"You took in a sick, starving, frightened man, and you lost everything. That warrants at the very least an apology and a bit of gratitude on my part."

She dropped her head down, still trying to pry off her boots, muttering something under her breath.

Thunder rumbled, and the rain poured down even harder, and Bucky wanted nothing more than to head inside, dry off and put on a pot of coffee, but he knew that if he didn't say what he needed to be said, now, there wouldn't be another opportunity.

"I _am_ sorry, and I _am _grateful." He paused, thinking about the letter, about what she'd said. Not just that he didn't owe her anything, but also that she was a receptacle of knowledge and memory and that she could provide an explanation or elaboration upon request.

Did she feel obligated to him? Did she feel like she owed him that? Did she feel like because she'd spent two and a half years collecting information about him that she somehow was obligated to explain herself and her reasoning behind all of it? Did she feel like he didn't owe her an apology for his actions? Just because he'd been brainwashed? Just because she'd been friends with his sister and Steve? He didn't know, but he couldn't let it stand.

"I know there's nothing I can do that's going to change the past or make up for what happened to you because of me. But you don't owe me a goddamn thing, Ramirez. Not your time, energy, or your forgiveness, regardless of who I was to Becca, or who I am to Steve. I've taken up two and a half years of your life. You don't owe me any more of it."

Thunder rumbled, so loud that Bucky could feel it vibrate in his chest. Then there was silence. Had he overstepped? Had he said the wrong thing? He held his breath, waiting for her to respond.

After a moment, Ramirez stopped trying to pry her boot off, her hands pausing in their motion, and Bucky could swear that he saw her exhale, a long, slow, and massive breath as if she'd been holding it, locked up inside of her. Some of the tension eased from her shoulders, and her jawline smoothed somewhat.

"Any chance I could get you to help me with these boots, Barnes?" She said weakly, looking up at him. Her expression was still cool and calculated, but the lines that had previously creased her features had softened somewhat. "I think my ankle has swollen, and my hand is having a hell of a time with these clasps."

Bucky nodded, "Let's get inside. I'll get you a towel, and I can work on the boots."

"I still don't want to track mud into your house, Barnes."

"The floor is dirt. Mud isn't a problem, Ramirez."

Ramirez chuckled, this time not-unkindly, and nodded, "Alright, after you then."

"You first." He motioned with his hand.

She rolled her eyes, but nodded, limping into the hut in front of him.

Bucky followed cautiously behind her. "You can sit down anywhere. I'll get a pot of coffee going, and find you something to dry off with." He said, now suddenly aware of how small the living space in the hut was, particularly with another non-Steve person occupying it with him.

He and Steve were used to cramped quarters, but sharing that same space with a less familiar and likely hostile party was a little tricker. Looking up, he met Ramirez's gaze. "It's a little small, isn't it?" She said knowingly.

"Yeah." He nodded.

Ramirez's eyes scanned the hut before she settled down by the entryway. "Not so bad for one person, but two people is a bit much." She commented, as her hands resumed their work on her boots.

"You still want my help with boots?" Bucky asked.

"Well, now that you've mentioned coffee, I think I'd rather you focus your efforts there. These boots will come off eventually." She said, gritting her teeth, her hands working the wet and mud-caked buckles of her boots.

Bucky nodded, and they both set about their tasks in silence. Or near silence, as Ramirez muttered and swore under her breath until the boots tugged off, followed by very wet socks.

"Yup. That's swollen." She cringed, poking gingerly at the inflamed joint.

"As soon as the rain lets up, I'll get the village healer."

"And Jelani's tools." She added.

"Huh?" He looked up at her from the coffee pot, which had just started bubbling.

"That _is_ why I ended up here if you recall."

"Right." He nodded. Stopping, He turned to the little side table and slipped on his Kimoyo bracelet. "Damn. I should wear this thing more." He muttered as no less than fifteen messages appeared. "They're about to send a search party out for you, Ms. Ramirez." He said, addressing her curious gaze.

"Oh. Damn."

"I'll let them know that you're with me, that you're safe, and that you'll be headed back as soon as the rain clears."

"Much appreciated."

Bucky nodded. Sending off the message, and he quietly poured two steaming mugs of coffee, aware that Ramirez was watching him intently. "How do you take it?" He asked.

"Black." She answered. "Can I steal your blanket? I'm freezing."

"Please. I'm sure the coffee will help too." He replied, looking up, saw Ramirez dragging the boarder tribe blanket to her, wrapping it around herself before he handed over the mug of coffee.

She took it in both hands, her fingertips brushing his in the exchange. Looking down, she blew gently on the bitter black liquid before taking a sip. "It's good." She said, looking back up, met his gaze.

"I'm glad."

Ramirez surveyed him. "How are you not freezing? Do you want me to close my eyes so you can change into something not completely soaking wet?" She inquired.

"I run a little warmer than most." He paused. "Which I guess you already knew." He added.

"Yeah." She nodded in agreement, "I guess I did."

There was a long award pause, as Bucky tried to figure out what to say next. His eyes drifted around the small hut, doing his best not to focus on Ramirez, and fell on the journals, stacked neatly on the side table beside her. "You were very thorough." He said.

"What?"

He motioned with his chin to the journals.

"Oh. Right. That." She said. "You've read them?"

The surprise in her voice took him aback. Did she think he hadn't? That he wouldn't? Well, he hadn't exactly given her any indication that he'd read them, had he?

"Multiple times."

"Really?" She said, again, surprise in her voice and on her features.

He nodded again.

"You must have questions."

"As I said, you were very thorough." He had a thousand questions he wanted to ask, a multitude of things, but at the given moment, he didn't want to push his luck with Ramirez. Particularly since it appeared they were finally getting on slightly better terms than they'd been before.

Ramirez nodded, settling further into the folds of the blanket, took another sip of coffee. Something was at work behind her features as if she was trying to puzzle through a particularly tricky problem. "You must think all of this is strange." She commented, motioning to the journals with the top of her head.

Bucky frowned, not entirely sure of her meaning.

"A dead woman helping your best friend track you down, and meticulously recording the whole thing?"

"It's not as strange as you might think, all things considered." He couldn't help but think of everything he'd learned about her when he'd thought she was dead. Though, he wasn't ready to talk about that quite yet.

Ramirez nodded slowly, her eyes bright with curious intrigue. "How long have you known?"

"What?"

"That I wasn't actually dead."

"January."

"How'd you figure it out?" She asked before taking another sip of the coffee.

"My sister's obituary photograph. You were in one of the back rows."

"So I was." She nodded. "I was wondering if someone was going to figure that out." Ramirez shook her head, "So you know that I knew your sister."

"I'd gathered as much from the picture before Steve told me last week."

"She was a wonderful woman."

A pain twisted in Bucky's chest, and he nodded. "Yeah, she certainly seemed like it."

There was a long pause, both of them wrapped up in their thoughts as rain pounded against the roof of the hut.

"You must have some questions for me."

"A few." She replied.

"You can ask if you want. Though I can't promise that I can answer all of them."

Ramirez nodded, "I think that's more than fair." She paused, chewing on the inside of her mouth absently a moment she proceeded, her gaze focused on a point just behind him, and even further away than the human eye could comprehend. "When you were on the run, you saved several women from street harassment, attempted rape, and the like."

"Yeah. I did." He'd almost forgotten about that, and it was practically buried in her journals under everything else. "How'd you figure that out?"

"The internet is a wonderful place, Barnes." She chuckled, shaking her head.

"But that wasn't your question."

"No." Ramirez agreed, "It wasn't."

"And?"

"Why'd you do it? You were on the run, any one of those incidents could've tipped us off to where you were. Why bother?"

_Because of you,_ He would've said, but he had no idea how she would take that. But it was true. He'd left her to die at the hands of Hydra. He hadn't wanted his inaction to cost anyone else their lives. It sounded stupid in his head, and that was where it was going to stay. "Because it was the right thing to do, and as you well know, I haven't had many opportunities to chose to do the right thing in a while."

"But even if it compromised you?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah." She echoed but said nothing further.

"Is that all you wanted to know, Ms. Ramirez?" Bucky ventured after a moment.

"Mhhh, hmmm." She murmured into her cup, with a slight nod.

"Why?"

Ramirez looked up at him, her dark eyes surveying him, and for the first time since they'd been reacquainted in Wakanda, Bucky got the feeling that she wasn't looking at him unkindly. Not that he deserved her kindness or had earned it in any way, but it was a change, and subtle though it was, Bucky felt like he could breathe again, like he wasn't holding his breath, waiting for calamity to strike.

"Trying to make out your character, Mr. Barnes." She answered finally.

_And?_ He wanted to ask. _What have you found?_ But he knew better than that. If he'd thought her expression had been icy before, he could only imagine how much frostier it would be if he pushed her too far now.

"So you really don't have any questions you want to ask me while I'm trapped here waiting for the rain to stop? Nothing you want to know?" She asked, disbelief tinging her tone, a near smile almost crossing her expression.

"I do have questions, but none that need to be answered right now." He shook his head.

Bucky would like nothing more than to ask her the thousands of questions he had running through his head, just to get them out. But as she'd said, she was trapped here, injured, and very much at his mercy. He wouldn't take advantage of that kind of situation, even if he wanted to.

"I understand." Ramirez nodded, glancing down into her mug. "Well, it isn't warm milk." She murmured, chuckling to herself.,

"Huh?" He asked before he could stop himself.

Ramirez cleared her throat and looked back up at him, "Can I have some more coffee?"

"Yeah, sure." He took her mug and poured her another cup.

_Warm milk._ It was something his mother had always done. Warm milk was the cure to a variety of ills if you asked Mrs. Winifred Barnes. Bucky hadn't remembered that until now, but why Ramirez had mentioned it he didn't know. "I could steam some milk if you want, it might help take the chill off."

"Oh." She blushed, looking back down into the steam coming up off the coffee. "No. That really won't be necessary."

Okay, _now_ Bucky had even more questions, but none that would be at all appropriate to ask. Had he said or done something to make her blush? What had she meant by "well, it isn't warm milk?" Why did he feel like he was witnessing one side of a conversation that was simultaneously about him, yet had nothing to do with him at all. He didn't know, but he did feel oddly relieved, somehow. She was sitting in his hut, drinking coffee, and they were having what could be considered a pleasant conversation. It was more than he could've hoped to expect, and unfortunately, it still felt like there was a catch. Like some dark cloud was looming over them, figuratively as well as literally.

Ramirez's gaze had drifted back over to the journals, and fixated upon them. Something between nostalgia and pain crossed her features.

"You can have them back if you'd like."

"What?" Her head turned so fast and so hard Bucky thought that she might have snapped her neck.

"Your journals. You can have them back. I know you put a lot of time. It has all the photos. If you want them back." He said.

"No. That won't be necessary." She shook her head. "I want you to have them, Barnes. The journals, the photos, the letter, I gave it to you. I want you to keep them," Ramirez paused. "It might help you reclaim some of what you lost."

_Lost?_ Did she know that he'd lost the journals during the raid in Romania? Had Steve, the Princess, or the King told her? He didn't know, and he didn't want to ask at present. "If you're sure."

"If I never saw them again, it would be too soon." She said.

"Understood." Bucky nodded.

It didn't exactly take a rocket scientist to figure out why she'd feel that way, but it was odd to him that she didn't at least want the photographs of her and Becca back. But, she said she wanted him to have it, all of it. So he wouldn't push her any further.

_Why her? Why of all people did she have to be the one to get dragged into all of this?_ Bucky wanted to ask. It didn't make sense, and it certainly wasn't fair, but he could rage at the universe about fairness all day, and it wouldn't change anything. They could only deal with what they'd been given. All of the wishful thinking in the world wasn't going to change anything.

"It looks like the rain is letting up," Ramirez commented after a long silence.

Bucky looked out the door and to the landscape beyond. It did indeed look like the rain was easing up, and the thunder and lightning seemed to have subsided completely. "How does your ankle feel?"

"Swollen. Probably sprained." She answered grimly.

"All right." he nodded, rising to his feet. "I'll go get the healer, and then get the tools that Omondi borrowed from Jelani so you can get on your way."

Ramirez watched silently as Bucky put his shoes back on, and he was nearly out the door when she spoke. "Barnes?"

"Yeah?" He stopped mid-stride and looked down at her.

"Thank you. For carrying me out of the jungle. I do appreciate not being left in the middle of the storm, despite what I said earlier."

"I understand," Bucky paused. He had so many questions, so many things he wanted to ask. Would this be the last and only time he would get the chance to ask? Or would they get another opportunity? He didn't know, but he had gotten the most important thing out, he had apologized and said thank you, that at very least was something. If he only had one chance, he would be thankful he'd gotten to say that at the very least.

Blinking, he realized that Ramirez was still watching him expectantly. "I'll be right back," he said shortly. Then without another word, he walked from the hut and out into the last remnants of the dying storm.

* * *

So how about that, huh? They are finally talking (ish) to each other like actual adults! I can't even tell you how many iterations of this scene I went through (I really wanted them to get into a shouting match Pride & Prejudice 2005 style) but ultimately thought this worked better. I hope this relieves some of the tension I know you guys were feeling. We're finally getting out of the petty stage and into the "maybe we can talk to each other" phase of things, which I find to be very, very exciting.


	36. Terms and Conditions

Author's Note: Marvel owns what it owns, and I own what I own, let's keep it that way shall we? Don't Sue me!

Recommended Listening: This Land by Hans Zimmer; Wakanda by Ludwig Goransson; Fly Away by Lenny Kravitz; Here I am by Bryan Adams

* * *

Ch 36: Terms and Conditions

The sun was warm and bright, and Maggie found herself sprawled out on her back, soaking up the warmth from under the shade of one of the many trees clustered around Jelani's workshop.

It was lunchtime, and Jelani had all but forbidden her from doing any work between the hours of noon and two. So she'd brought her heavy plainsmen blanket, her frozen mango cubes (along with the rest of her lunch), and her water-skin so she could lay out in the shade in comfort as she watched the clouds roll by through the branches of the tree.

She was trying to practice some quiet mindfulness, even as she kept her ears open for the sound of a mule led feed delivery cart.

It was Tuesday, and it had been four days since her wet trek through the jungle with James Barnes. Their subsequent conversation was replaying on loop in her head as she tried to understand what had happened and what the hell she was going to do now.

Maggie squeezed her eyes shut. She was exhausted, she'd been exhausted for a long time. Perhaps now that she had gotten this thing over with between her and Barnes she could rest.

But it really hadn't been settled had it? He'd apologized and acknowledged what she'd been through. He'd told her that she didn't owe him anything. That was everything that she'd convinced herself she wanted. That should be the end of it. The operative word, of course, being _should._

Only it wasn't. It might have been if James Barnes had been the cold, heartless bastard she'd built him up to be in her mind.

In all fairness to her, she had been in the Winter Soldier Trenches for the last two years, and yeah, after the guy failed to materialize at his sister's death bed, she'd formed some opinions. Never mind all of the horrible shit that had happened to her because of him.

But that hadn't been his fault, and she'd tried to remind herself of that. He was a victim of Hydra. Yet, somehow, in all the anger and pain and sheer frustration that reminder, that truth had been obscured, and her brain had transformed Barnes into the convenient scapegoat.

Then he hadn't been the heartless bastard she'd built him up to be in her mind. He was by no means the Romeo she'd built up in her mind before Becca's death _either. _He was simply an unknown entity, and Maggie's experience on the mountain had made her realize that she had both severely misjudged James Barnes and been tremendously unfair to both of them.

It was surprising to admit, and no one was more surprised than she was. She'd gone from irate to ambivalent in less than three weeks, and now she was waiting to see what would happen next.

Maggie opened her eyes and rolled onto her side. Picking up a mango cube from the little dish she'd brought with her, and popped it in her mouth chewing thoughtfully. She couldn't help but think about what he'd said.

_You don't owe me a goddamn thing...I've taken up two and a half years of your life. You don't owe me any more of it._

The bastard had used her own words against her. Maggie wasn't sure how she felt about that. She didn't know how to feel about any of it, but she did know that she wanted to talk to Barnes.

That, she knew, was because of Becca. She also knew that Becca was part of the reason she'd been so angry, part of the reason she was still hesitant to talk to Barnes, and part of the reason she still _wanted_ to talk to Barnes. She knew that she didn't _owe_ Barnes an explanation. It was that she'd been given the memory of James Barnes, Becca's memory of James Barnes so that Maggie could give him the message from his sister.

_Your family did not forget you, and they loved you very much._

When Becca had told her that, Maggie had been willing to do exactly that for her friend, a woman that Maggie had loved with all of her heat. She'd wanted nothing more than to carry the memory of her friend's older brother and carry her final message to him. Only then her head had been filled with fantastical accounts from the seventy-year-old memory of the man's youngest sister. She hadn't crossed the point of no return yet, hadn't dug through the Winter Soldier's history yet, hadn't seen the chair and cryo-chamber in Argentina yet. Hadn't witnessed, and read, and then dealt with the subsequent fall out of everything that had been perpetrated against and by the Winter Soldier.

Now she had. Now she had come face to face with the man that remained from those experiences. Now she was left to figure all of this out, and didn't have the damndest clue how to honor her friend's dying request.

Did Barnes want to talk to her about his sister? She knew now that he knew they were friends, that they'd been close while Maggie had been on the hunt for him. Was he as protective of Becca as she was? The only way to find out was to ask, and the only way she was going to be able to do that was when he showed up for feed delivery.

"Heyi, Cowgirl!" Maggie jerked into a sitting position at the sound of Jelani's approach.

"Sir?"

The older man chuckled, shaking his head. "You can call me Jelani." He said, stopping at the foot of her blanket. "How long has it been since you've been on a horse."

"Years, sir, uhhh, Jelani."

"That's no good. Clean up your stuff and meet me by the paddock." Maggie opened her mouth to protest, but he cut her off. "You need to be in a Wakandan saddle, on a Wakandan horse before you shod any of my horses."

Maggie couldn't argue with that. She nodded and rose to her feet, collecting and packing away her things. Stowing them in the shop out of the way, she followed Jelani over to the paddock where there were two horses tied, saddled, and waiting for them.

"Pick whichever you like." He said, motioning to the horses.

Maggie paused. Was this a test? It felt like a test. She glanced at Jelani and then at the horses before ducking between the fence slats and entering the paddock.

It was familiar, although it had been forever since she'd done this. With her herd back on Last Chance, they'd known what she was going to do before she did. Now, with these horses, in this place, she was dealing with unknown entities.

_Seems to be a lot of that going around._

She stopped before she reached the horses, exhaling a long deep breath. Horses were good therapy animals for a reason, and she was about to have a very intense session if she didn't check herself.

_Check your emotions, or the horse will do it for you._ She could practically hear herself say to one of her clients.

God, she missed them, she missed that part of running the ranch. She missed helping people, missed facilitating the deep relationship that many of her clients formed with the ranch horses. She missed it. Missed the community, missed her animals, missed the feeling of accomplishment.

"You okay, Cowgirl?" Jelani's voice pulled her back.

"Yeah, sorry," Maggie said, blinking she shook her head before she approached.

She did a quick but thorough evaluation of the horses, checking their hooves, flanks, mouths, and teeth, as well as surveying the tack. Stepping back, she put her hands on her hips and frowned, "Huh."

"What is it, Cowgirl?"

"What's the catch?"

"I don't believe I understand."

"This is a test, isn't it?"

Jelani looked her over, "You think this is a test?"

What was she supposed to say? She thought it was a test, what other reason would there be for such an ordeal. "Yes."

He nodded, his expression giving nothing away. "Choose a horse, Cowgirl."

"Right." She nodded. If it was a test, Jelani was going to keep it to himself. She turned to the two horses. One was a mare. One was a stallion. Both were brown with white markings. Functionally there wasn't a lick of difference between them. However, the mare had a calm sort of energy about her and a white spot that looked like a star between her eyes that made Maggie smile.

Approaching the horse, she extended her hand before gently rubbing the horse's head and nose. "What's her name?" Maggie asked absently as she untied the mare from the paddock fence.

"They don't have names," Jelani said as he entered the paddock and untied the stallion.

"Is that some kind of Wakandan naming convention I should be aware of?" She inquired, glancing over at him.

"No. We let their first owners give them their names." Jelani replied. "What do you think you'll name them?"

Maggie paused as the words sunk in, opening and closing her mouth like a fish out water until she managed a simple "What?"

Jelani chuckled, leading the stallion from the paddock. "The King wanted to ensure you had a horse of your own to use for the duration of your stay. In honor of your name day, he instructed me to select two for you as a gift. Both as a birthday present and to welcome you into our community."

"You mean." Maggie stammered, glancing between Jelani and the two horses. "These are _my _horses?"

"Yes. You may stable them with my herd, but they are yours to do with as you please." Jelani nodded.

"I don't know what to say. I don't know how I could ever repay you." She said, her mind spinning.

The King, the King of Wakanda, had given her a pair of horses for her birthday? There was a lot to unpack just in that one sentence. First of all, what day was it? She hadn't been keeping track, and apparently, her 33rd birthday had come and gone without thought or comment. Second of all, holy shit, she'd just been given two beautiful horses, and tack apparently, by the reigning monarch of a country that she would have been hard-pressed to place on a map two months ago. She didn't know how she should respond.

"Put them to good use," Jelani replied, as he mounted the stallion with a grace and ease that she wouldn't have expected from the man. "Come on. We're going for a ride. We won't be gone long."

Nodding wordlessly, she adjusted the stirrups and climbed into the saddle. The front and back of the wooden saddle were higher than she was used to, but it was comfortable, and the fit was good.

"We'll ride single file until we get to the grassland just over the next hill, then we'll see what you're made of," Jelani said, before urging his mount into a brusque walk, and Maggie followed behind.

They rode in silence as she and the horse became acquainted. The horse was tremendously well trained, and hyper responses to Maggie's commands, to the point she was almost convinced she could've controlled the horse without the use of the reigns at all.

Walking at a leisurely pace, Maggie leaned into the rhythm of the horse's gait and could feel as the tension started to slip from her body.

She'd missed this. She hadn't realized how much she'd missed this. That last six months on the ranch she hadn't gotten on a horse, just out of time and necessity, then she'd been in hiding, or on the run for the last two and a half years. It had been nearly three years since she'd been on a horse, which for someone who had spent a sizable portion of their life in the saddle felt like an eternity.

The sky was clear and a nearly impossible shade of blue, and white cotton candy clouds drifted slowly by while the warm wind cooled Maggie's sun-kissed skin. Leaning her head back, she exhaled, a huge smile across her face. She might be halfway around the world, in a country that was not her own, in a place not of her choosing, but on the back of this horse, it felt like going home, and she felt more like herself than she had since Riley had died.

"My King tells me you competed in the Charreada," Jelani commented, pulling Maggie back to the present.

"Some. Yes. When I was very young." She answered, picking up the pace to ride side by side with him as they left the narrow trail and the rolling plains spread out before them. "Mostly, I helped my family with our cattle growing up, but that's been well over a decade as well."

"Well, we do not do most of that there. I will have to teach you how we heard our animals and handle our horses." Jelani replied.

"I look forward to learning something new." She answered.

"Good. Let's see what you can do." Jelani commented with a wink. "Do try to keep up, Cowgirl." Without another word, he took off, and Maggie followed after, urging the horse into a gallop.

Following Jelani around the field, they weaved and turned, stopping and starting, slowing down and speeding up, testing her horsemanship. Jelani was a phenomenal horseman, and as it had been three years since she'd even been on a horse, her own horsemanship was rusty and paled in comparison. Fortunately, her horse was well trained and was able to correct and compensate for her inadequacies.

"Not bad for your first time on a horse in years." Jelani laughed as they slowed to a walk.

The horses were breathing hard, but Maggie was breathing even harder. She nodded, laughing weakly.

"How do you feel?"

"Good. I feel good." She managed.

"Good." He smiled, "Now, let's get back. We should make it just in time for dinner."

"Dinner?" Maggie echoed. How long had they been out here? She'd lost track of time. _Shit the feed delivery._

"Indeed. You will come and have dinner with my family and me, won't you?" Jelani commented.

"Of course. I would be honored." Maggie heard herself respond, but she was still miles away.

She'd missed Barnes. She'd missed her opportunity to talk to him and to apologize for her previous behavior. She hadn't even really told him "thank you" for dragging her out of the rain.

"There is a midwinter festival in a few weeks. Do you think with a bit of training, you would be able to help us move cattle and other livestock?" Jelani inquired as they started back toward the village.

"I would be happy to."

"Good. You will make a good student, and an even better horsewoman once we get you trained up a little bit." He cracked a wry smile.

Maggie might have risen to the bait, but she knew when she was being ribbed, particularly by older men who wanted to give her a hard time about something unimportant. She smiled and nodded, "With any sort of luck."

"We should get back. We don't want Tee to think that I'm misusing you." Jelani commented as he started them back in the direction they'd come.

It had been a glorious afternoon that had certainly gotten Maggie out of her head and back in the saddle, literally and figuratively speaking. But she'd missed an opportunity to talk to Barnes. She wanted to try to set things right so that she could get him out of her head, and put this whole retched affair behind them. Now, it would be yet another week before she'd get that chance, and with everything going on, a week seemed like a lifetime away.

Yet, as they rode back and Maggie thought through what she and Jelani had done, and what Jelani had proposed, thoughts of Barnes melted away as she thought about her new task, her new goal. She was going to help Jelani and his team move cattle and other livestock during the midwinter festival. That was something to work toward. She had a purpose, and she had a goal, and she got to be back on a horse. There was certainly a lot that could happen between now and then, but for the first time in a while, she felt a little bit like her old self again. And that was worth missing a chance to settle this thing with Barnes. It had waited two and a half years. It could wait a little bit longer.

* * *

Bucky awoke with a start. An occurrence so familiar he almost didn't notice that his whole body was shaking. He'd had that dream again. The one where everyone was dead, the one where everyone was dead, and it was his fault. The walls of his hut were closing in on him again. So he rose from his bed and stepped into the night. It was a new moon, and the stars glittered across the sky, so bright and vibrant, you could see the arm of the Milky Way galaxy. He inhaled deeply.

The night air was cool, and a gentle breeze made the grass and the trees sway this way and that.

_Safe. You're safe. _He repeated over and over to himself like a mantra. But it wasn't working, not tonight, not right now.

Bucky exhaled, running his fingers through his hair, and started walking, his feet carrying him along one of the familiar goat paths.

It had been a quiet day. He'd looked after his goats, gone on his normal route with the feed, he'd made himself dinner, read some before he'd fallen asleep early although his mind and his PTSD had apparently had other plans.

_Progress would be slow._ Shuri had warned him. _I can remove the hydra programming, but the memories and their trauma will still be there._

He hadn't expected any less. He hadn't wanted anything less. He'd wanted his memory back, and he wanted to remember, and now he remembered everything, and he would have to deal with the consequences. The consequences, of course, being flashbacks, nightmares, paranoia, anxiety, and a whole host of other things that he'd never imagined were possible to cohabitate in a single human being.

His mind was reeling, and his feet carried him through the Wakandan countryside. While he was aware of his surroundings, from the crunch of dirt, twigs, grass, and gravel underfoot to the sound of the wind whistling through the trees, he didn't particularly care where he ended up. All he knew was he needed to walk and walk and walk until he outpaced the speed of his thoughts, or until exhaustion did the work for him.

He paused at the sound of someone humming, putting him immediately on edge. His eyes scanned the perimeter, his mind finally catching up to where his feet had led him. He was now nearly three miles over the hill and toward the horse village. Why he'd decided to head that way he didn't know, but he glanced around, unable to identify precisely where the humming was coming from.

"Down here, Barnes."

"Ramirez?" He lowered his eye line and found her sitting in the grass.

"Hi." She said as they made eye contact.

"Hi." He echoed. Glancing around, he realized he was actually no more than two hundred yards from her hut and the horse village. Of all the places in Wakanda, his feet had brought him to practically Ramirez's front door. _Why?_

He'd expected to see her today during the feed delivery. Only she'd been out on an errand with Jelani. At the very least, that's what Sisay had told him. They hadn't spoken since he'd hauled her down the mountain. He'd tried not to think about her. He'd mostly succeeded. It had been a busy few days since their misadventure. Yet, the questions he had were still with him, still rattling around in his overfilled brain. For him, while the whole question of Ramirez was a difficult and somewhat painful subject, it was easier for him to think through those things than it was to deal with any number of others.

"Sorry I missed you today," Ramirez commented.

"Sisay said you were out on an errand."

"Jelani was getting me acquainted with Wakandan horsemanship."

"Sounds like fun." He offered uncertainly.

"It was, but I did want to talk to you."

_She wanted to talk to me? _Bucky hesitated, uncertain of how to respond. _"Why?" _Seemed a little too direct at the moment, but with his head pounding and his mind still racing, he was drawing a blank.

As if sensing this, Ramirez took pity and continued, "I wanted to say thank you for what you did the other day and apologize for withholding information."

_Withholding information? _She'd written out three journals, detailing everything she'd learned, and written a letter giving him a blank check to ask whatever the hell he wanted, and she was apologizing for withholding information? What did that mean? What could it mean? Bucky didn't know, so he focused on the first part. "You wanted to say thank you?" He could hear the disbelief in his voice. "For what?"

"You got me out of a dangerous situation when I was less than gracious about the entire thing. You could've just let me wander around the Wakandan countryside lost until someone else found me, or for that matter could've left my ungracious ass on the mountainside when I slipped and sprained my ankle. So thank you for not doing any of those things." She paused a moment. "All mitigating circumstances of our history aside, you didn't owe me that, and I am grateful."

"It seemed wrong to do otherwise, regardless of who it was." Which he felt was mostly true. He would've done that for anyone. It was just doubly true because it was her.

Ramirez nodded, "I appreciate it, Barnes." She held his gaze a moment before looking down and away, chewing on the corner of her mouth. She appeared to be debating with herself, although what she was debating, he didn't know. After a moment, she reached a consensus and looked back up at him. "I have a message from your sister."

So that's what she'd meant about withholding information. Bucky could feel his heart race, pounding loudly in his throat as his stomach twisted into knots. "Okay." He searched her expression as eagerly as she searched his.

"She wanted you to know that she never forgot you that your family never forgot you and that they love you very much." She said slowly. "I'm sorry that I didn't tell you sooner. I wasn't sure if I could or if I should. What happened Friday, made me realize that it wasn't my place to decide that. I certainly don't owe you anything, but I did owe my friend the dignity of delivering her final message to her brother."

It felt like a punch to the gut. Why had Ramirez kept that out of her letter? Why hadn't she told him immediately?

Then a thought occurred. Ramirez hadn't known if he deserved Becca's message if he was worthy of it. After all, she'd delved into the world of the Winter Soldier, and everything that he'd done after his sister had died. "Did my sister know?" Bucky managed, "Did she know what I'd become?"

Maggie exhaled slowly, breaking his gaze, she put her head down, her hands fidgeting with a chain around her neck. "You wanna sit down, Barnes?" She asked, glancing back up at him. "I'll tell you what you wanna know, but there's a lot of it."

Bucky was being offered answers. He didn't actually think he'd get answers, that he deserved answers after all of it. Now, after everything she'd been through because of him, Ramirez was once again offering them to him freely.

Ramirez said nothing a moment, waiting for him to make his decision before she nodded, took a deep breath, and began. "Your sister did ask about you. Becca saw you on the news, as the Winter Soldier, after the hellicarriers went down in D.C., and then after Steve showed up and said that he'd seen you, she was able to put two and two together. Steve wouldn't give her details, wouldn't talk about it. He wouldn't talk about you with anyone, me, Sam, Becca, anyone. It was just too painful. It was one of the reasons that he introduced me to your sister, I think. At first, I asked a lot of questions about you, who you were as a person, before 1945, since I couldn't get that information out of Steve." She shook her head.

"You wanted to get a better picture of who you were looking for." He interjected.

Ramirez nodded. "Yeah. And Becca was happy to oblige. We talked a lot about you in those first months. But then she wanted to know what had happened to you. She knew something terrible had happened to you, and she wanted to know how much of her brother was left to save."

Bucky flinched. He hadn't meant to, and nothing in Ramirez's voice had been harsh or cold, but hearing that Becca had asked how much of her brother was left to save hurt. Hurt in a way that he hadn't expected that it would. Somehow even Becca had known something terrible had happened to him. "So, what did you say?" He asked shortly.

"I told her the truth about what I had seen while you were on the ranch with me. That I could sense you were dangerous and capable of hurting me, but that I never felt afraid. I knew I should have been, perhaps that it might have spared me and ranch everything that I've gone through since then, but I knew that as much as you were a danger to me, you were more of a danger to yourself." Ramirez chuckled weakly. "All of that seems so long ago. But I still remember how adamant you were about fixing the roof, and that you stuck your neck out for me with Roberts, and helped around the ranch when you didn't have to, when in fact it was a detriment to you." She shook her head. "I told your sister there was something compassionate about you, about the man that I had seen in my barn, that although you were scary and capable of tremendous violence, there was something worth trying to help still left in you."

A rush of feeling washed over him, grief, shock, relief, and pain mixed into one. After everything she'd been through, Ramirez had told his sister there was something worth trying to help still left in him. "You told her that?" Bucky asked weakly.

"I did."

"Did you believe it?"

"At the time, yes." She answered.

"And now?"

"It depends on the day," Ramirez admitted with a shrug. "But I think that's more of a me thing than a you thing if I'm honest."

There it was, the anger, the fury, the feelings and the person that Bucky had expected to find when he'd seen her that day she'd given him the journals. "You have more than enough reason to hate me, Ramirez."

"You know, I really wanted to hate you." She paused, "Are you sure you don't wanna sit down? This seems really strange having this conversation with me sitting on the ground and you standing like twenty feet away. I promise I won't bite."

"I wouldn't want to intrude."

"I wouldn't consider it an intrusion. I did invite you to sit down. Twice, now."

Bucky hesitated, "Why are you telling me any of this?"

"Because I want to." She said. "And because I want to know."

"Know what?"

"If any of this was worth it."

_If her sacrifice had been worth it._ Bucky couldn't help but notice what she hadn't said. He took a couple of halting steps toward her. "Are you sure you don't mind?"

"I don't think we're going to get a better chance to sit and talk this through than in the middle of a field at two in the morning. If we're going to live and work in close proximity, we should try to resolve _this, _whatever _this _is so we can move on with our lives."

He nodded but said nothing as he crossed the distance between them, and sunk down on the far corner of her blanket. There was a pause, and the sounds of the night edged in around them, the wind, the rustle of the grass, the sound of animals and bugs taking up space in the night. "Why are you out here, Ramirez?"

"Couldn't sleep, you?"

"Same."

Ramirez surveyed him a moment, and he was almost sure she was going to call him out. Instead, she just nodded before glancing up at the multitude of stars overhead. "Thought I might try to stargaze until I realized that I didn't have a proper star map and that it had been years since I'd been stargazing properly. But it was nice to get out of the hut and into the open air for a bit." She stayed quiet a moment, her eyes scanning the night sky, with its endless depths before she looked back down and over at him. "So. What do you wanna know, Barnes?"

_What didn't he want to know? _A thousand questions were swirling in his brain. Mercifully he was able to latch onto one and put it into coherent words. "Why'd you do it? Decide to help Steve look for me?"

Ramirez paused, taking in the question, mulling over her answer, before slowly, she began. "At first? It was because I wanted to go home. Steve and Sam and the Avengers had me declared dead so that Hydra wouldn't keep trying to come after me. I figured the faster I found you, the faster I could go home." She paused, wincing to herself. "And then I found out Becca was dying. At that point, I think I'd more or less realized I wasn't going to get to go home any time soon, but that if I worked my ass off, uncovered enough clues, found enough bread crumbs that I could get her brother back, and you would get to say goodbye and have closure, in a way that I never got." Ramirez shook her head.

"With your brother, Antonio." It slipped out before he could stop it, and Ramirez turned to look at him, her expression creased in confusion as she looked him over.

"Yes," Ramirez said slowly, skepticism in her voice. "You've done research on me, haven't you?"

"I did." He replied, bracing for the anger, for the indignation and hurt to cross her face. Instead, relief, passed over her face, nearing an all-out smile. "What?"

"It really isn't as strange as I might think, all things considered." She said, echoing what he'd told her only four days before.

"Yeah." He nodded. "I did a bit of research while I was on the run, of all of the Winter-all of my victims. People I'd killed for Hydra."

"Only you didn't kill me."

"No. But I left you for dead."

"Oh." She frowned, "I mean. Yeah. I guess you did. But if it's any small consolation, that's not how I saw it."

"And how did you see it?"

"You were frightened, and you warned me that I was in danger. I feel like had you just up and left without at least giving me warning that Hydra and that bag of dicks were headed toward me, then yeah, that would've been leaving me for dead."

"So, that's not why you wanted to hate me?"

"No. No. I wanted to hate you for the subsequent ways that your presence on my ranch ruined my life, and how it got me involved in the hunt for you, but when it came down to it, it was and is actually a "me" problem rather than a "you" problem." She paused. "Sorry, not to circle back around to this, but you did research on me? What were you looking for? What did you find out?" There was a mix of horror and amusement in her voice.

"Just what the internet could provide." He answered lamely.

Ramirez looked him over, opened her mouth to speak, hesitated before proceeding anyway. "Did you happen to write all this down?"

"Yeah. The journals were confiscated by the U.N.; otherwise, I would hand over what I wrote about you." He said.

"That would explain why the international community took an interest." She sighed, shaking her head. "I appreciate the gesture Barnes, but bad quinceanera photos and family home videos aren't exactly medical history and a kill list."

It took everything he had to keep from flinching at her words, but it wasn't like she was wrong. Still, Bucky knew he needed to say something. "Doesn't make it any less personal."

Ramirez took a moment to contemplate this before she answered. "True." She agreed.

"I do appreciate the measures you took to make my information as secure as possible," Bucky commented slowly. "I take it, Romanoff trained you."

"She did." Ramirez nodded. "Though not the same way that you trained her in the Red Room."

"She tell you that?" Bucky could hear the incredulity in his voice. It didn't sound like 'Tasha to tell Ramirez about their history together, but then again Ramirez had broken more precedents than he could keep track of. Whatever her answer, it would be novel either way.

"I figured it out. She confirmed."

"So you know you spent two years hanging out with two of my former..." He sought for the right word and came up blank.

"Details didn't come up. I suspected mostly with Natasha until she confirmed it for me. Steve was evasive as best, but I figured that was because he was hurting, and finding you were going to be the only way he could heal from that hurt. They didn't volunteer information, and so I didn't dig. It didn't seem important to our mission of bringing you home. Which is why it doesn't appear in the journals, amongst other things." Ramirez paused. "But I think their perspective was important to how I understood you or understood who you might be." She said slowly. "The James Barnes that each of them knew was different, very different, but they all said the same thing. They all said that you were a good man." Ramirez shook her head. "It's probably why I kept at it as long as I did; it felt like it would be worth it in the end."

"Was it?"

Ramirez chuckled, shaking her head she flexed her left hand before rubbing it gingerly with her right, "I don't know. I think I'm too close to the situation to be able to say for sure, at least right now." She glanced up at him, "Sorry that I don't have a better answer. Ask me in six months to two years. I'll have a better answer then."

Bucky nodded, and there was a long pause as he tried to find the right words to express everything that was going through his head. He'd ruined this woman's life, and now, even after everything that had happened to her, and after everything she'd learned about him, about what he'd done, still had it within herself to not hate him. "You should hate me."

"Probably, and I did want to, I tried, Barnes, trust me." She said after a moment. "It just ultimately wasn't a productive use of my time. Why would that make it easier?"

"Easier?"

"I dunno. Sometimes it's an easier emotion to quantify." She shrugged.

Perhaps it would make it easier, knowing there was someone out there who hated him more than he hated himself. There certainly were plenty of contenders, but none quite as convenient as Magdalene Ramirez. However, as she had said, hatred was an easier emotion to quantify than anything they'd talked about this evening. Hatred would be easier to understand. Hatred would be easier to overcome. Whatever she felt, it was more complicated than that.

_Ask me in six months to two years._

He would laugh if it weren't true. They were stuck with one another for the duration, and what that meant remained to be seen. However, now it felt they were on slightly surer footing than they'd been only three weeks ago when she'd first arrived. "So, what do you want?" Bucky asked.

"Want?" She echoed.

"Out of our future interactions." He said slowly. "If you never want to speak to me again, I understand."

"Oh." Ramirez paused, frowning, she thought this over before proceeding. "I'd like to be able to talk to you about Becca if that's something you'd be interested in." She said. "I know that if there is anything I don't regret about the last two and a half years, it's getting to know your sister for the short time that I did. I'd like to be able to share that, share her with you."

Bucky could feel his chest ache at the mention of Becca, and the friendship that she and Ramirez hard formed. He was jealous, of that time, of that opportunity, of that chance. Yet it sounded like Becca was probably the only thing standing between him and Ramirez's outright hatred. The fact that Ramirez wanted to talk about his sister, talk about his sister with him, that was an opportunity worth its weight in vibranium, or gold, take your pick. "I'd like that." Bucky nodded.

"Me too." Ramirez started a smile that transformed itself into a massive yawn. "Damn." She shook her head, glancing at her Kimoyo bracelet. "I'm afraid that's going to have to wait for another time."

"Yeah, I should get back." Bucky agreed, rising to his feet, he watched as Ramirez collected the blanket and rose to hers.

"It's going be a long day tomorrow I need to try to get some rest," She paused, looking him over uncertainly. "If you ever can't sleep Barnes, or you wanna talk about Becca, I haven't been sleeping well. I don't mind the company. Even yours."

"Thanks?"

"No problem." She laughed. Shaking the blanket out, Ramirez folded it carefully and then turned to him. "Well, goodnight! Get back to your place safe."

"Thanks. Night." He replied, turning he started walking away, only vaguely aware that he was being watched by Ramirez as he walked over the hill and out of her line of sight.

His mind was still spinning; the blood and screaming and horror were never far away. Yet, for a brief moment, as he paused, looking out over the lake just outside of his hut, he felt relief and felt peace. He'd gotten answers to some of his questions, and he would continue to get answers as he and Ramirez talked about Becca. What tomorrow would bring, he didn't know but riding the tailwind of his conversation with Ramirez. He knew he'd be able to find a little bit a rest with the little bit of certainty that she had provided him. Becca had remembered him, knew what he was, and had still loved him.

* * *

I hope you all enjoyed! A slower chapter compared to the last few, but finally, these two jerks are talking to one another! Nothing but good things in store for the next few chapters (I promise!). R&R, I always look forward to hearing what y'all have to say! (It also feeds the plot bunnies!) Until next time, happy reading!


	37. Heyi Cowgirl!

Author's Note: Marvel owns what it owns, and I own what I own, let's keep it that way shall we? Don't Sue me!

Recommended Listening: Rhinestone Cowboy by Glen Campbell; Good Ride Cowboy by Dylan Miller; Hoedown by Emerson, Lake, and Palmer; How 'Bout them Cowgirls by George Strait

* * *

Chapter 36: Heyi Cowgirl!

Bucky liked peopled watching. He'd always been particularly observant. It had saved his skin more than once, before and after Hydra as a means of survival. However, in Wakanda, he found himself as an observer in a way he'd never experienced before. Rather than being one of the faces in the crowd, he found that people smiled and greeted him, their eyes always watchful and curious. They didn't bother him, but he knew he was being watched. Still, people watched him, and he watched them back. It was The Midwinter Festival, which Bucky had been told, was the event of the year. The kids had practically dragged him to the festival grounds, even though he didn't have livestock or produce to sell. It was nice, however, to listen to the sounds of Wakandans living their lives and mostly taking no mind of the stranger amongst them.

He scanned the crowds, looking for one person in particular. He knew he shouldn't be looking for her, she was probably busy out with the horses, doing whatever it was that she was doing with Jelani, but still, he rather hoped that he would be able to see her at some point when they both weren't supposed to be working.

It had been three weeks since he'd walked to the Horse village in the middle of the night, and they'd had their conversation. Every Tuesday since then, they'd spent their lunch hour talking about Becca. That first Tuesday had been awkward, but after that, he'd started looking forward to their lunchtime discussions. It was a welcome break from being trapped inside his own head, and they both had a lot to say and ask about his sister.

For his part, he was curious about the type of woman Becca had become, and the family she'd left behind. Ramirez wanted to know what she was like growing up. To keep things fair, they both got thirty minutes to ask and have their questions answered. Which, depending on how in-depth their questions were meant they only got to or three questions per lunch hour.

Yes, it was an imperfect system, but for them, it seemed to work. Things were still tense, but since Ramirez had told him that she wanted to talk about Becca, some of the tension had subsided substantially. Part of this was because they avoided any topic or thread of conversation that linked back to their and their history. Whether by unspoken rule or happy coincidence, they hadn't ventured into awkward territory.

Still, Bucky was curious about Ramirez and was eager to see if she would want to talk with him outside of their allotted lunchtime.

"Heyi, White wolf." Bucky started, turning to see his neighbor Omondi approaching.

"Elder Omondi." He nodded in response.

A short, rail-thin Wakandan man with long white dreads, Omondi was the eldest chief of the village where he was staying and had volunteered to take him in as his sponsor when Shuri had brought him out into the countryside shortly after she'd thawed him out. So he was Bucky's neighbor, sponsor, and functionally his boss, which made all of their interactions strange in a way that Bucky couldn't quite define.

"That's just Omondi to you." The man corrected as he approached. "You really should start wearing your Kimoyo bracelet while you're out." He scolded, taking his walking stick up in both hands.

"Why's that?"

"The royal family have been trying to get a hold of you."

"What? Why?" His mind began to spin. What had happened? Was it Steve? Had something terrible happened? Was he hurt? Killed?

"They wanted you to eat lunch with them in honor of the festival. You were due there twenty minutes ago."

"Oh." He breathed, as his heart stopped pounding quite as quickly. "Thank you for letting me know."

"Do you know the way?"

"I don't."

"Then, I will show you." Before Bucky could manage a "thank you," Omondi set off toward the center of the festival, weaving this way and that way through the throngs of people that had come to the celebration. Bucky followed after, aware of how the crowds seemed to part before them.

"So, you came!" Omondi commented cordially as they walked.

"The kids wouldn't have forgiven me if I hadn't. He replied. It wasn't a total lie, only a lie through omission.

"Well, good. They should bully you more often. The festival is one of the great Wakandan traditions. No one should miss out on seeing it." he paused as they took a sharp turn before continuing his questions. "How have you liked Wakanda?"

"It's been nice. Quiet. It's very peaceful here." Bucky answered.

"I am glad to hear White Boy. You have been a very good neighbor." Omondi commented.

"You and your village have been very good to me." Bucky replied, "I don't know how I can ever repay your kindness."

"You should not spend so much time alone. It is not healthy. You carry a heavyweight from the life you have led. It is not a crime to allow others to help you with its weight." Omondi said. "A friend would be good for you, and who knows, maybe in return, you'll be able to share their load with them too."

Bucky opened his mouth to respond but thought better of it. The man wasn't wrong. He did spend a lot of time by himself and for a good reason. He was coming down off of 70 years of brainwashing and torture, adding people into the mix was more than he was prepared for. Plus, finding peers closer to his own age would require some serious thinking. Was he almost a hundred, or was he closer to his mid-thirties? By who's count was he keeping score? It was a difficult question.

"What about that other American, the one at Jelani's?" Omondi supplied when Bucky didn't say anything. "Jelani tells me you've been spending your lunch hour with her on Tuesdays."

_Of course he did._ Bucky couldn't help but wonder if Jelani had given Ramirez the same talk that he was now getting from Omondi.

"You might want to give it a try," Omondi concluded as a shady tent overlooking the Midwinter Festival's festivities came into view. "They're expecting you. I'll see you after." Omondi motioned with his head.

Bucky paused, looking back at Omondi's retreating form, then up to the tent where he could hear laughter and voices. He would rather be out in the grassland watching over his goats than stuck at a formal luncheon, but he owed the King and his family this at the very least. He wished he'd known in advance to be able to mentally prepared himself for everything that was getting ready to take place, as the thought of all of the people, noise, and social protocol made his head begin to spin.

"So they got you too, huh, Barnes?"

He turned to see Ramirez walking up this hill toward him. Her usual pants and button-down replaced by a wrap skirt in the dark oranges and blacks and tans of the plains tribe and black halter, large bronze and copper earrings hung from her ears, and her long hair was twisted and braided, and wrapped with a cloth of a similar pattern as her skirt.

Bucky looked down at what he was wearing. The red and blue scarf and matching shirt and pants that Shuri had first given him when he'd arrived. It was clean and lacked holes or stains, but by comparison to her, he looked unkempt and underdressed.

"I meant the lunch." She clarified as she came up beside him.

"Yeah. I received the invitation a little late, so I'm not quite as dressed." He explained.

"This was part Teela, part Jelani, and I'm sure mostly Princess Shuri," Ramirez commented, glancing up at the tent. A look of dread crossed her expression. "If we started running now, how far do you think we'd get before they caught us?" She asked dryly.

Bucky looked down, they were both wearing leather sandals, although Ramirez's were the kind that wrapped around her calves with thick straps. "Well, with those shoes, you wouldn't get very far. I could carry you over my shoulder, but that would slow me down considerably." He reasoned.

Ramirez snorted, shaking her head. "Every man for themselves, huh?" She asked, looking up at him, she arched a graceful eyebrow before returning her attention to the tent. "They're our hosts. It would be rude." She said, more to herself than to him.

Then there was a transformation. In an instant, she looked somehow more at ease, more relaxed, an easy smile on her face, "Come on Barnes, we're already late, we shouldn't keep our hosts waiting." She said before charging up the hill without another word.

_A mask. _Bucky realized. It was what he'd seen on the ranch too. _A performance._ Was that what she was doing with him every Tuesday? He couldn't help but wonder with creeping dread as he walked up the hill after her. He replayed their interactions as if upon closer inspection, he'd find something he'd missed before.

Reaching the entrance of the tent, he paused, watching the scene unfold before him. Princess Shuri had taken Ramirez over to the Queen-mother, who sat at the head of the table in her place of honor and was now engaged in a polite exchange. Ramirez executed a small bobbing curtesy, introducing herself in Wakandan, and thanking the queen mother for her gracious invitation. Her pronunciation was impeccable. _She's been practicing. _Bucky couldn't help but notice. He'd heard her a couple of Tuesday's before their scheduled lunchtime, working on Wakandan phrases and expressions with Sisay and Jelani.

The Queen-mother smiled graciously. For her part, Ramirez looked the perfect picture of calm, composed, and poised, all except the clasped hands, which she was squeezing so tightly it looked painful.

Bucky paused as a silent presence settled beside him. "General." He nodded.

"White Wolf," Okoye said in sharp English.

"Only my best behavior." Bucky murmured.

"I would expect nothing less." She answered coolly.

Bucky nodded. He didn't mind her demeanor. He understood, and he respected her role and position. He hadn't exactly started on the best foot with King T'Challa or his head of security. Being menacing wasn't just for show, and Bucky knew on instinct alone that he did not want to ever find himself on the pointy end of Okoye's spear. Ever.

"White Wolf. Join us!" The Queen Mother called in plain English, beckoning him over to the table where she, the Princess Shuri, and Ramirez were already sitting.

"Your highness, thank you for the invitation." He nodded as he approached the table, pausing only as Okoye indicated which seat he would be occupying.

He was with his back to the entrance, which made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on edge. But if anyone in Wakanda wanted to kill him, he'd imagine it would be the aforementioned General, who would be honorable enough to kill him face to face, rather than with a knife to the back.

Sinking down in the seat next to Ramirez, he looked across the table where Princess Shuri and The Queen mother already sat, two empty seats between them for The King and another guest.

"How are you finding Wakanda so far, Magdalene?" The Queen Mother asked her eyes flitting between the two foreigners at her table.

"Very Well. I am profoundly grateful for the tremendous generosity and kindness I've been shown by everyone I've met since I've arrived in your beautiful country," Ramirez answered warmly, everything about her looked at ease. Or rather almost, Bucky couldn't help but notice how her hands were still clenched in her lap.

The Queen Mother nodded graciously, before looking up and behind them, a regal smile gracing her expression. "Ahh, my son."

Everyone turned to see The King with the woman he'd called on at the meeting when they'd found Ramirez, enter the tent, followed by his entourage of Doras.

"Barnes. Magdalen." He nodded graciously as he unhooked his arm from the woman's and turned to address them "

Bucky rose to his feet, as Ramirez did the same, and turned to the young monarch. "I apologize for the last-minute invitation, but we are glad you could both make it," T'Challa said, first shaking Bucky's hand before he turned to Ramirez.

"Thank you for inviting us, your highness." Ramirez managed in Wakandan as they shook hands.

"I see you have been practicing." The King said, gracing her with a smile. "Jelani tells me you have been putting my birthday gift to good use."

Ramirez nodded as they released hands. She returned the King's smile with a hesitant one of her own, before continuing in English. "Yes, I haven't had the opportunity to say thank you for the generous gift. I have been working very hard to make the absolute most out of them."

Bucky watched the exchange with curiosity, his gaze darting back and forth between them. _Birthday gift? _He pondered a moment. _Oh Shit. It had been her birthday. _He knew her birthday. It was November 11th, Armistice Day, he'd written it down in his journal. Bucky backtracked, trying to remember when the 11th had been. _The day I carried her down the mountain. _It had been her birthday?

"Barnes, Magdalene, I believe you've already met her, but this is Nakia of the River tribe, and head of Wakandan international intelligence."

"His girlfriend." The Princess supplied not as under her breath as her brother would've liked.

Nakia, however, took it in stride. "A pleasure to meet you both, formally, this time," Nakia said, shaking hands with both him and Ramirez before following the King around the table.

The King sunk down, sitting down in the seat beside his mother, and Nakia sat between him and the Princess. When the royal family had settled, he looked up and motioned for them to sit as well.

Greeting his mother and sister, The King paused as the food was brought out and presented to the table. "Please, eat, drink and talk freely," He urged them. "This is a day of celebration, and you are my guests."

Ramirez thanked him again, before diving right into the meal, Bucky followed a little more cautiously, watching the physical cues of everyone around him, particularly Ramirez, who sat on his right side, still strained and tense like a rubber band about to snap.

Was it him? Was it the situation? Bucky didn't know, so he stayed quiet, watching and listening to what was going on around him. Aside from not knowing what to say, he didn't have all that much to say that would pass as pleasant lunch conversation. So he just listened. The royal family chatted amicably, occasionally The King and Princess quibbled, while Nakia and Ramirez were talking about ranching in west Texas, crop yields, and seasonal weather patterns and climate in Spanish.

From what Bucky could catch, Ramirez was doing her best to answer them but often finished with "I think...I was a kid, and it's been a while...I can look it up if you'd like."

To which Nakia would shake her head and say, "No, no, thank you, Ms. Ramirez." And then would proceed to the next question. Bucky was amazed at how much Spanish he knew, considering all of the other languages and information Hydra had shoved in his brain.

All of this came to an abrupt halt when a message buzzed at her wrist. She stopped mid-sentence and looked down, reading the message. "Everything all right?" The Queen-mother questioned as all eyes turned to focus on Ramirez.

Ramirez nodded. "Yes. I'm afraid I must excuse myself. I have to return to the stock pens. There is a fence breach. All hands on deck." She glanced up and around at the assembled company. "Thank you, Queen-mother, for your hospitality. Thank you, your highness, for inviting me to dine at your table."

"Of course. We shall not detain you." The King replied graciously.

Ramirez rose, rushing her thanks and goodbyes to everyone. Pausing, she glanced down, nodded to him, and left the tent as the assembled company chorused their farewells to her retreating form.

Once she disappeared into the bustling crowds of the festival, all eyes turned to him.

"How have you been enjoying the Midwinter Festival, Mr. Barnes?" The King inquired, taking a sip of his drink.

Why did he feel like this was somehow a trap? They were going to find a way to bring this back around to Ramirez, ask him how they were getting along, how she was adjusting. So how was he supposed to respond to that? They were laying a trap for him, and he wasn't sure how to avoid springing it. "I honestly hadn't had a chance to look around before lunch. I look forward to getting the chance to see all that the Midwinter Festival has to offer." He said.

"Were you surprised to see Ms. Ramirez here?" The Princess piped up.

_There it is._ "No. She told me she was going to be at the festival."

"Jelani tells me you've been having lunch every Tuesday together." The King continued. "How is she adjusting life in Wakanda?"

Bucky paused. What was there to say? He'd seen her once a week for three weeks, for an hour. Before that? They hadn't exactly been on speaking terms. "I don't think I could speak to that. I'm still adjusting, and I've been here quite a bit longer."

The King nodded, and the lunch passed without further comment on the subject of Ramirez. Instead, Princess Shuri asked him about his goats, and how Omondi and the others were doing in the village. He asked her about her projects, and she was able to share some of the less classified things.

Lunch ended, and the royal family and Nakia bid him farewell, and he walked back through the festival grounds, his mind trying to digest what he'd just seen.

The Wakandans were trying to gauge how he and Ramirez were getting along. Between Omondi, T'Challa, and now he assumed Shuri, Jelani, and the rest of them, he and Ramirez were being watched like hawks. It made sense, the only two foreigners in the entire country, they want to make sure they aren't getting into trouble. Was Ramirez receiving the same sort of treatment? What did she think of all of this?

For her part, Ramirez was excellent at playing whatever role needed to be played, particularly at lunch. But, he couldn't help but notice, she'd been perfectly cordial and candid with him right before they'd joined the royal family. Did she want to talk to him? Did she look forward to talking to him the way that he was with her? Or was this simply a favor to his sister and Steve?

Bucky didn't know, and he knew the only way to find out would be to ask, which at the moment felt like an insurmountable task.

"I trust lunch with the King went well," Omondi commented as Bucky arrived back at the goat paddocks.

As part of the festival there was a nationwide livestock sale, which accounted for the presence of the entire herding and ranching community. Omondi, who had several hundred goats split into various herds under the direction of his sons and sons in law, was a key figure not just in the village but in the country. As such, there were a bunch of Wakandan men gathered around Omondi, who all gave Bucky a critical look at his approach.

"I did." He replied, surveying the group of men uncertainly.

Sensing Bucky's discomfort, Omondi glanced around at the group, firing off several rapid bursts of Wakandan that Bucky didn't quite catch all of. However, there were two particular phrases that he was able to catch. "Lunch with our king," and "Cowgirl was there."

What else the man said, Bucky didn't exactly know, but there was a round of laughs, and their demeanor changed.

Bucky shifted uncertainly as the men returned to their conversation with Omondi. He didn't need to be here for this. He had told the King that he was going to explore and see what the festival had to offer.

_I just want to go home. _What? Back to his hut? To read? He was still trying to catch up after all. No, he was most likely going to go back to the hut, and journal, and he was going to sit and obsess over all of the stuff he was remembering, the violent, horrible things that the Winter Soldier had done.

_A friend would be good for you._

Bucky would've laughed if it wasn't true. Unfortunately for both of them, the only likely candidate at the moment was Ramirez, and he still got the feeling that she only tolerated being around him. He wouldn't dare burden her with such a task.

Slipping away from the goat pens, he wove his way through the festival's stalls and vendors—all of them selling anything from fresh produce to fine jewelry. There was, of course, what could be considered fair food: frozen and fried desserts, meats on sticks, meats in between pieces of bread, all sorts of roasted and fried vegetables. There was even a shaved ice stand, although not with the technicolor array of flavors that he remembered buying from the stands in Coney Island and Central Park.

It was crowded and loud, and he couldn't help but notice the stares and passing whispers. He tried to ignore them. After all, what could he exactly do to stop them? They would whisper regardless of what he did, just on the basis that he wasn't Wakandan, and he was missing an arm, never mind that he was the guy who'd briefly been blamed for the death of their previous King.

Now that he was on the mend, he could go back out into the world and help Steve, Wilson, and Maximoff. Perhaps he could help them find Romanoff. _Not that 'Tasha would ever let him find her if she didn't want him to._

_No._ He shook his head. He could hardly control his flashbacks, and his nightmares were violent enough without going back into the field. It wouldn't be a good thing for him. It wouldn't be a good thing for anyone.

_A friend would be good for you—someone to share your burden._

Bucky was pulled from his thoughts by the roar of massive bodies and the thunder of hooves.

He was near the cattle yards.

Glancing around, he realized that just a few hundred yards beyond the outskirts of the festival grounds, there was a massive field where the cattle were being moved into different pens.

The thunder of hooves was pierced by quick shouts in bursts of Wakandan. A call and response, almost like a song communicating something utterly foreign to Bucky, but that the riders seemed to understand and follow. His eyes scanned the field until he found Ramirez among them. Her hair was still wrapped up in the traditional Wakandans scarf, and she still wore the halter top but had removed the wrap skirt, using it as a scarf slung across her body, and now wore pants. Her massive beaten bronze and copper earrings were gone. Still, the reins, saddle, and saddle blanket of her horse, and all of the Wakandan riders were highly ornamented with and bangles and bells, which made an audible jangling that could be heard even over the massive thunder of hooves.

Her face, Bucky couldn't help but notice was bent in focus and concentration as she and the horse moved together as one. It was fluid and natural, and the horse it seemed moved practically by telepathy as she didn't seem to be directing the horse at all with the reins. She wasn't alone, of course, there was Sisay, Jelani, and a few others all on horseback moving cows into various pens while others on the ground moved gates and orchestrated the next movement of animals and workers.

The ground was dry, and the movements of the massive animals raised dust, which swirled around them in the light afternoon breeze. Bucky found his gaze drawn to Ramirez as she worked, the way she maneuvered the horse in perfect harmony with the others. He'd never seen her on a horse, strange, considering he'd spent two weeks on her ranch. Well...not all that strange, considering he hadn't exactly been all there for most of it. But seeing her on horseback now, she looked more at ease than he'd ever seen her before. There was something peaceful about her expression. Her face was bent in concentration and absolute focus, her eyes continually moving and accessing the situation second by second. Her mouth also moved as she worked, either answering the call or chewing on the corner of her mouth or licking her lips. It was an open and honest expression.

He was staring, Bucky knew he was starring, but he couldn't look away as she worked, unaware of his presence, in what could best be described as her natural habitat.

There were only a few cows left, which they quickly and expertly sorted into the appropriate pens. Then over the plains came a song. It was loud and joyous, and Bucky managed about every third word or so. It was about finishing a hard day's work and going home to the girl you love. Ramirez sang along, in a full chested voice, a broad grin on her face.

_Nothing else to see, you should go before she realizes you've been watching. _Bucky thought as he turned to go. "Heyi, White Wolf!" A series of voices chorused over the field and reached him. He froze, momentarily contemplating pretending that he hadn't heard them, and walking away before they could reach him, but knew that he'd been made, and he'd have to turn and face the consequences.

Turning back around, he found that Jelani had broken off from the group and was trotting toward where he was standing. "You should come to the stables. A few of my riders would like to meet you!" He called. "Unless Omondi needs you elsewhere."

"I can go to the stables," Bucky answered, glancing past Jelani to Ramirez, who had stopped a distance away and was watching the exchange.

"Don't worry. She doesn't bite. See you in a few," Jelani winked before, clicking his tongue, directing his horse back toward the other riders.

_Shit. Shit. Shit._

Bucky followed after, and soon found himself surrounded by horses, and their riders. Jelani was there, of course, and introduced them in turn. They all shook his hand politely and asked him how he liked the festival, each of them expressing surprise when Bucky was able to respond in passable Wakandan.

After a few minutes, the crowd dispersed, and Bucky and Jelani were left standing alone. It was an open-air set of stalls not really a barn, more like a set of posts that the riders were tying their horses to. He could see Ramirez moving around her horse, fastening a feedbag and mask to the horse's harness before she started removing the tack, setting it on a nearby log where the others were placing their saddles.

"You ever been on a horse, White Wolf?" Jelani inquired amicably.

"No." Bucky shook his head, redirecting his attention to Jelani.

"Really? The King tells me that you were on Cowgirl's ranch for two weeks. She didn't get you on a horse?"

"I prefer having both feet on the ground," Bucky said quickly. The idea of getting on the back of a horse was more than enough to make his blood pressure skyrocket, never mind that Ramirez's head had shot up and she was now watching them from where she was standing.

"Omondi says that you have a keen eye. You could be useful."

Bucky didn't know how to respond, and he grasped at straws, trying to figure out what to say next. His people and conversational capacity long spent after his lunch with the Royal Family, and now his brain was frantically trying to come up with something, but only drawing a blank.

Then, Ramirez's voice broke the silence. "Hey, Barnes! Can you come over here a minute?" She called.

Glancing at Jelani, Jelani gave him the universal "Go on," motion with his head, and Bucky nodded, excusing himself and quickly crossing the yard to where Ramirez was working on her horse.

Rounding the back of the horse, he found Ramirez crouched. She looked up at his approach, a grimace creasing her features. "What's wrong?" He asked, stopping in his tracks.

"Sounded like you could use an out," Ramirez replied with a thin smile that quickly returned to a grimace. "Could you...can you.." she paused, licking her lips, motioned vaguely to the hoof pick lying on the ground with her right hand, her left clutched against her. "I'll never hear the end of it if I asked them for help." She said.

Bucky nodded, understanding her meaning, and wordlessly retrieved the pick.

"If you don't mind too much, could you help me pick out the hooves? I'll lift the hoof if you pick it out, I can walk you through it if you'd like."

"I remember," he replied, adjusting the pick in his hand.

"So you remember that, huh?" She cracked a small smile as she lifted the first hoof, straddling the horse's leg, held it steady.

"I had a good teacher," Bucky said as he started to remove the compacted dirt and mud from the pad of the hoof. It was slow going with only one hand, but Ramirez was keeping the hoof steady, so it wasn't as difficult as it might have been otherwise.

"How'd the rest of lunch go?" She commented casually as he worked.

"Fine." Bucky paused, glancing up at her, they met each other's gaze. "The King wanted to know how you're adjusting to life in Wakanda."

Much to her credit, Ramirez's facial features remained perfectly still, even as her eyes surveyed his expression. "Oh? And what did you say?"

"Said I wasn't qualified to speak to that." He answered.

Ramirez snorted, but nodded, offering no other commentary.

"Was that okay?" Bucky asked uncertainly.

"That looks good." She said, ignoring his question. "Help me with the other three?"

"Sure." He nodded.

They moved to the next one, and he worked in silence a moment before Ramirez spoke again. "Yeah. That was fine." She paused, "Level with me, Barnes. Is there some kind of betting pool that I'm unaware of?" She asked, the exasperation thick in her voice.

"No. Why?"

"It feels like everyone has taken a tremendous interest in our interactions recently. I figured money had to be involved," Ramirez shook her head.

_So it wasn't just him. _That was a relief. "Yeah, I noticed that too." He paused, "Does it bother you? I'm sure if we said something, it would stop."

"I doubt it," Ramirez shrugged, "I was just wondering what the stakes were and if I should place a wager."

"What?" He stammered.

She paused, looking up at him, cracked a smile, giggling quietly. "It was a joke, Barnes."

"Oh. Right."

"So, other than that, nothing extraordinary happened after I left? You have a chance to explore the festival?" She inquired as they completed the second hoof and moved around to the third.

"Nothing extraordinary to report. I did get a chance to walk around for a bit."

"Anything exciting?"

"Not particularly," He shrugged casually.

"Must be pretty boring if you were driven to watching us work," She commented with a light laugh. It wasn't a harsh or mean laugh. It was pleasant and kind. Probably kinder than he deserved.

"I'd never seen a cattle round-up or drive or whatever," He explained, not about to mention that the crowds and noise had been getting to him.

Ramirez paused, again looking up at him, "No. I guess you hadn't." She said thoughtfully, surveying him a moment before focusing back down on what they were doing.

"So what about you? Have you had a chance to explore?" He asked, his attention focused down on the hoof, picking and scraping at the mud, grass, and twigs that had compacted.

"Not too much. Just when I was walking to lunch."

They paused, both standing up and watching as a group of the riders walked by, "Heyi White Wolf, see you later, ewe?" They called, waving as they passed.

Bucky nodded, watching Ramirez's expression out of the corner of his eyes as they walked away. It wasn't angry or frustrated. If anything, it was amused. "What?" He asked as they walked around to the last hoof.

"They really like you, don't they?" She said, picking up the horse's leg.

"Who?"

"The kids. Omondi. Jelani, my co-workers, the Wakandans in general."

"Oh. _That._" He said sourly. "I think it's more that I'm a curiosity. The strange one-armed white guy."

"You are a strange white guy with one arm." She said a matter of factly, releasing the last hoof and giving the horse's haunch a pat. Without missing a beat, she extended her hand to him, "Pick, please."

Placing the pick in her open palm, Bucky watched as she turned, and crouching down by her saddlebags, started to rummage through them. His mind reeled as he tried to pick apart their current conversation to figure out what was going on. She'd recognized he was having a hard time and called him over to help her. They were having a conversation, a quite normal, he'd even argue a pleasant conversation. She hadn't been awkward about him calling himself 'that strange one-armed white guy.' Even Steve got a little uncomfortable when Bucky made casual reference to the arm, or now the lack thereof. She'd even asked him for his help, in a way that was both beneficial to her, and accessible for him.

"Hey Barnes, you wanna help me brush?"

"Sure." He nodded as Ramirez rose to her feet.

"Awesome, here catch." She tossed a brush to him.

Bucky caught it. Inspecting it curiously, he chuckled under his breath. Even here in the far reaches of the world, the tools were damn near identical. Ramirez moved around to the other side of the horse, where she was across him and started to brush the horse down with patient methodical circles, her eyes bright and focused were still creased with pain and exhaustion.

"Long day?"

"Yeah," She sighed, nodding. "Been up and out since about three this morning."

"Why so early?"

Ramirez snorted, "You are a dyed in the wool city kid." She shook her head, "Ummm," She began, "Well, had to get the horses out and ready to go for the day. Then coordinating with the other tribes to drive their cattle and then getting them to the yard. Then, of course, the fence breach. It's been a hell of a day." She sighed.

"Sounds like it." He agreed.

They continued in silence, working quietly on their respective sides a moment before Ramirez spoke again. "Okay. I gotta ask. Is there a reason why they call you White Wolf? Other than your pallid completion, I mean?" She watched him a moment, her eyes just visible over the horse's back, before adding. "And before you eye-roll into another dimension, I do ask in earnest. They keep referring to you as the White Wolf. I'm just wondering if I should refer to you as the Lobo Blanco as well."

"I wasn't going to eye-roll into another dimension Ramirez, and no, you don't have to call me that." He paused, trying to find the most direct path through what was a complicated story. "It's an honorific. It means I've been accepted into Wakanda as an outsider. I've been effectively adopted into Wakanda."

"Ah. So a title. Color me a little disappointed." She said, shaking her head.

"I can't stop you from calling me, Lobo Blanco."

She looked up at him. "You have incredible pronunciation for a gringo. I'm impressed."

"But you knew that I mean—" He cut himself off, bracing himself for a negative reaction.

Instead, Ramirez just shrugged, "I mean yeah. I know that you speak 30 languages, but I didn't know if you spoke it like a gringo or like a native speaker. I would consider myself to be a native speaker, and even I had a bit of trouble blending in, in Juarez." She replied. "How's your idiomatic Spanish? They teach you all of the swear words?"

Bucky snorted. _That would've been something. _"No." He shook his head. "Not officially. I did pick up some idiomatic and profane language via exposure but nothing sanctioned per-say." He paused as he processed the words coming out of his mouth.

They were talking about Hydra, they were talking about the Winter Soldier, and about the training, they'd given him. Shouldn't he be feeling something? Shouldn't she be more on edge? She knew what he'd done for them, wouldn't she be worried about, triggering him or something? Instead, she looked perfectly at ease and content as she continued working the brush in little circles. If she was afraid of him or afraid of eliciting a reaction out of him, she didn't show it.

"Well, I'll have to teach you some of the more colorful Spanish colloquialisms some time." She continued, unaware of his internal dialogue. "Provided you can help me with swear words in a language of your choosing. Even English, I like outdated slang and swear words."

"Oh, the old-timey curse words." He hazarded a little a vague sarcasm with a dash of mock innocence. "I don't think I know any of those."

"Oh, bullshit, Barnes," She rolled her eyes. "You forget I've spent a lot of my life around members of the armed forces, and I'll have you know Army has the second-worst language, behind Navy."

"Behind Navy? I'm fucking appalled."

Ramirez laughed. "Well, they say swear like a sailor for a reason. Swear like an Army Sergeant doesn't quite have the same ring to it."

"I'd have to agree with you." Bucky nodded.

"Heyi, Cowgirl."

They both turned to see Jelani standing a few feet away. "Ewe, Jelani?" She turned to the man, her body language immediately becoming more rigid than it had been only a second before.

"When you are done with that, take some time. We won't need you until this evening." Jelani paused, surveying her a moment. "Get a wrap on your wrist and hand. You're not fooling anyone."

"Ewe." She nodded, and Jelani departed without another word. She turned back to the horse with a heavy sigh and resumed her careful brush strokes. "It's been a while since I've worked like that. My hand is bothering me." She explained the anger, frustration, and venom in her words palpable. Ramirez glanced up at him, meeting his gaze, "Marble rolling pin and a couple of Hydra Douchebags will do that to you." She shook her head, "but I guess I don't have anything to complain about." Her gaze lingered a moment on his left shoulder, before looking down.

What was he supposed to say? What did she expect him to say? Bucky said nothing, finishing his work in silence. When she'd finished, he rounded the horse and extended the brush to her. "Anything else?" He inquired as she took the brush from him and returned them to the saddlebag.

"Nope, that'll be all Lobo Blanco," Ramirez replied with a playful grin, her tone resuming its casual, almost relaxed cadence, though now Bucky was almost entirely sure that it was a mask that she'd put on to put him at ease.

"So, what are you going to do now?"

"Other than ice down my wrist and hand, not much, probably take a nap." She shrugged,

"You're not going to explore the festival grounds?" He asked. He couldn't help but hear the sharp note of disappointment in his voice.

Ramirez paused, surveying him with a mild hint of surprise. She sighed, her shoulders sagging. "It's been a long day, Barnes, and I gotta find ice for my hand. I'm sure I'll be able to check out the next festival."

"There is a shaved ice stand. It's on my way back to where Omondi is keeping the goats. I could show you. If you like." Bucky blurted out.

_This is stupid._ He was being stupid, but he and Ramirez had been having a good conversation, up until that brief interlude about her hand, and he wanted to know if they could have a conversation, an outing, an afternoon where they could be civil, maybe even be able to have a good time. A part of him, a small nearly non-exist part of him, part of the Bucky from the old days, wanted to see if he could make her laugh, _really _make her laugh. Just to see if he could. Just to see her eyes light up like they had when they'd been joking around. Just to know he was capable of it, after causing so much pain, he could create joy or happiness, even in the smallest amount. That perhaps he could make amends with someone he'd wronged or maybe even be capable of making friends.

Then again. She might be trying to find a way to politely excuse herself. They didn't exactly have the best track record with interpersonal interactions, and as she'd said, she'd had a very long day. "I'll buy you a birthday snow cone." He added.

"A birthday snow cone?" She echoed, raising an eyebrow, "You're not going to sing me the birthday song, are you?"

"Wouldn't dream of it." He shook his head,

She paused, evaluating her options. Eventually, she nodded slowly. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"Okay." Ramirez repeated, "Shaved ice sounds good. Let me change back into my skirt and sandals, and we'll get going."

"Sounds like a solid plan."

_So this is apparently a _thing. Maggie couldn't help but think as she walked through the Wakandan Festival, shoulder to shoulder with none another than James Barnes.

They weren't speaking, well weren't talking at the moment. It had been a long day, but then again, that's what she'd signed up for. Work hard today, and you'll work hard again tomorrow. That's what her grandfather had always said, and that was the life of a rancher. It was a life she'd led for almost 3/4s of her life so far. But it had been a while since she'd done anything closely approximating what she'd done today, and she was sore and tired and not entirely sure she was in the mood for anyone's company, never mind that of James Barnes.

Certainly, things had been better since he'd stumbled across her laying out under the stars in the middle of the night. They'd had their Tuesday lunch hour and had talked about Becca. That had been nice. Maggie had enjoyed that. She missed her friend, and it was apparent that Barnes was both curious and eager to find out who Becca had been. It was evident that James Barnes, Bucky, still loved his sister very much.

Yet, they'd been cautious. While she wasn't sure about Barnes, Maggie, in particular, had been careful about the types of questions she's asked, and the way that she'd answered his questions. For her, it was a matter of mitigating the creepy factor. Maggie still was on edge about how much she knew about Barnes, not just the medical and service record of the Winter Solider if it could be called that, but mainly with the personal information she had on him. How exactly was she supposed to tell Barnes that his sister had, on several occasions, said that he would've loved Maggie had they known each other back in the day? Would it ever be the right time/place/context to talk about the fact that Maggie had developed a crush on the apparition of James Barnes that Becca had painted for her, during their friendship? After all, she had experienced reoccurring dreams with the historic hunk with relative frequency, including a rainy rescue that ended in warm milk and a kiss on the fire escape, and a birthday snow cone.

So her _actual _rainy rescue hadn't involved either warm milk or kissing of any kind, and the snow cone, well the snow cone was circumstantial to her needing ice for her wrist, but still, Maggie was struggling. How the hell was she supposed to sort through the strange array of shit that was now happening? So she'd had a little harmless historical crush that she'd been more than happy to indulge while she was looking for the guy. Had that been such a terrible thing? It had kept her sane, and frankly human, during the whole ordeal. She'd never anticipated that she would be stuck in the same place as him, spending any kind of professional or leisure time with the man. Only now she was. How exactly she planned to deal with that, she didn't know. She _had_ planned on keeping everything strictly professional, but apparently, even that wasn't necessarily in the cards.

_Let him set the terms for your interactions. _

That seemed to make the most sense, and their Tuesday lunches seemed to be a natural outgrowth of his curiosity about his sister. Maggie had more than enough information to supply him, and was happy to provide answers for him.

However, as if her own private conundrum wasn't enough, there was now apparently the Wakandans increasing interest in her and Barnes's interactions. Barnes seemed just as perplexed by it as she was, which was comforting in some small way. Did the Wakandans see something that she was missing? Were they just curious about the two strange foreigners in their midst? Was this some kind of entertainment or amusement for them? Or was this simply how the Wakandans were looking out for their well being by encouraging them to become friends?

Maggie didn't know. And was it so wrong to admit that she'd enjoyed their Tuesday lunches? That talking about Becca again after going so long without even saying her name out loud wasn't something she looked forward to? Was it horrible to imagine that maybe, just maybe she enjoyed Barnes's company? Was it wrong to think that perhaps Barnes enjoyed her company too? After all, he'd enticed her out into the fairgrounds with the promise of cold desserts and ice for her hand.

"So that's what you do, huh?"

Her brain re-engaged in the present at the sound of his voice. "What?" She stammered, glancing over and up at him as they walked.

"I asked, that's what you do."

"Oh. With the horses?"

He nodded.

"Well..today was a first...it's been years since I've had to do something like all that. Normally it's just shoeing horses and shoveling shit."

"That's what it looked like back on the ranch."

"It's mostly what it was. Which is why I was practically lost out there today."

"You looked like you knew what you were doing out there."

"Well, looks can certainly be deceiving. That was superior Wakandan horse training and my teammates picking up the slack for me." She paused before adding. "But, I do appreciate your positive evaluation of my ability."

He nodded but didn't say anything.

_"You gotta give me more to work with here, Barnes," _is what Maggie wanted to say, but he was buying her a snow cone. So she couldn't be too critical of his lack of small talk. "What on earth possessed you to sit and watch us sorting cattle? This is a festival. Certainly, there are other events that are at least a little more interesting than watching us work."

"Not as many people." He said simply.

"Oh." He was a veteran. He had PTSD, the amount of energy it took to combat any number of anxiety and triggers, never mind how exhausting the lunch with the royal family was without the extra brain stuff happening, was astronomical. He was probably exhausted from that exertion alone, never mind actually walking and talking and functioning like a normal human being. It certainly put his rather deer in headlights look he'd had when he'd been talking with Jelani earlier into context, and explained his rather succinct answers now. But he hadn't been that way when they'd been working on the horse. Maggie paused, glancing around at the crowd of people. Aware of how the crowd seemed to part before them. Just barely wide enough for them to walk through, and that immediately closed behind them. _The strange one-armed white guy. _"That makes sense." She concluded lamely.

_So why not just go home?_

But she knew the answer. It would raise more questions, and it would ultimately reflect poorly on their hosts, and after everything the royal family had done, it wasn't worth it. That had more than factored into her decision to accept the invitation to lunch rather than take a nap.

"Did Elder Jelani give you a horse, or are you borrowing one of his?"

"Oh. No." She rushed, practically stammering. "No. The King gave me a pair for my birthday." She could feel a blush rising on her cheeks. She didn't like her birthday, and she could barely stand the idea of a _King_ giving her two horses, even if she did need them. "I feel like it's conditional ownership, but they are functionally mine. I was riding Stella today, Skywalker is back in the village, very happy to not be working today."

"Skywalker. As in Luke Skywalker?"

"Yeah." She couldn't help but feel some relief at the fact that he didn't push her further about her birthday, or the gift of the horses, or any of it. Maggie smiled, "Catching up?"

"Yeah. Slowly."

"I bet."

"List's about a mile long, but doing my best."

"Well, when you've cleared through your backlog, I'm sure I can offer some recommendations. Star Wars may be a classic, but I think you can do better for science fiction films in the last 70 years."

"I've been browsing some lists on the internet, but would welcome any suggestions from anyone over the age of thirty."

Thirty? It seemed a little arbitrary. "The Princess?" Maggie asked as the thought dawned on her. "She's been helping you catch up, hasn't she?"

"Yeah. I think she'd made it her personal mission to give me a crash course on all of the popular culture I've missed. It's been useful, but..." He paused, licking his lips as he tried to find the right words, that panicked expression as he searched and searched for the right word, and it just didn't come creeping onto his face.

"A bit of a difference in taste." She supplied.

He exhaled, nodding, his eyes scanning the crowds. "You could say that." The relief was palpable in his voice.

"Well. As I am over the age of thirty, I am more than happy to provide recommendations for popular culture for any medium from about the mid-1980s to the present." She said.

Riley would be flipping shit. He had been a huge movie buff, Captain America enthusiast, and a walking history textbook. Maggie knew she would never have heard the end of it, ever, if she didn't ask. Ask the question, the only question that mattered. The most important plot reveal in modern cinema (with perhaps arguably the twist in Six sense). "So have you seen Empire Strikes back?"

"Yeah?" Barnes answered uncertainly.

"What'd you think?"

"It was fine." He shrugged.

"Fine?" she echoed. "What'd you think of the whole Darth Vader thing? The big reveal?"

Barnes furrowed his brow as he thought a moment. "The whole, I am your father thing?" He asked after a moment.

"Yeah!"

"Oh." He hesitated. "Hate to be a downer, but I've known about _that_ particular twist since the movie came out."

She opened her mouth to respond but stopped. _Hydra. _"Ahh."

"I did absorb some popular culture through proximity, Ramirez. Personally, I prefer Star Trek, the original series to Star Wars."

"More science, less shooting?" She supplied.

"Yeah."

"Becca told me you were a huge nerd."

"That sounds like her."

Maggie chuckled but didn't have time to respond as they arrived at the shaved ice stand. Barnes spoke in passable Wakandan with the stall owner. Maggie had been practicing with Jelani and Sisay, but she couldn't imagine she'd ever get good enough to be fluent. She _wanted _to. She was living in-country for the foreseeable future, it would be downright rude if she didn't at least try, and Wakandan was such a beautiful language. Perhaps the Princess could just implant a language chip in her brain to give her fluency in at least 30 languages, if not more.

"Ramirez, flavor of shaved ice?" Barnes repeated.

"Cherry." Maggie blurted out.

He hesitated, glancing over at the vendor, who shook his head. "Don't think they have that one."

Maggie blushed. "Sorry. Ummm. Coconut."

Barnes nodded, ordering their shaved ices before he asked the vendor about ice for her hand. She could tell because of the way that he motioned and gestured with his hand. The vendor nodded, glancing at Barnes, then at her, then back at Barnes. Motioning down the line of stalls, he gave Barnes some rapid instructions before he handed over the first of the shaved ices.

"Ice?" Maggie asked as she took the large mound of ice and flavored syrup from him.

"He said that his wife sells something better, a few stalls down." He explained, handing over a few coins, before taking his shaved ice, thanking the vendor, started walking purposefully.

"Did he say what? I mean, I only really want ice to help with my hand." She stammered, following after him.

"Apparently something that will last longer than ice. He wasn't clear. He was just very insistent that we talk to his wife." He explained.

"Oh." She frowned.

"It's melting," Barnes commented.

"What? Oh." She glanced down at the mass of ice that was melting over her hand, and took a big bite,

Maggie sighed. It had been forever since she'd had anything this sweet or cold. It satisfied a craving that Maggie hadn't even realized that she had. She caught Barnes's gaze, cracked a small smile. "Thanks, this is really amazing."

"Let's get your hand taken care of." He replied.

She didn't know how to respond to that. She didn't know if, at this point, he would let her say no. Furthermore, she was intrigued as to what this mini-adventure would yield at the end of their quest. Stopping at the stall, the other vendor had apparently indicated, Maggie paused, "huh." Her eyes scanned the booth. It looked like jewelry: bracelets, necklaces, and rings, that all seemed to be made of various kinds of metal.

Maggie frowned. She'd seen the stupid copper bracelets advertised on TV, the ones that were supposed to help with pain and joint problems due to Arthritis. It was a load of shit, she'd read the peer-reviewed scientific articles about it, particularly when she'd had a lot of time on her hands back at the Avengers Compound. Was this really what they were suggesting? Here? In Wakanda? Really?

"Is this some kind of placebo?" She blurted out, drawing the attention of both the stall owner and Barnes.

"Perhaps in America, _Cowgirl._" The woman running the stall said, sourly, her accent thick. "Come come. Give me your wrist."

Maggie glanced between Barnes and the stall owner. "You should do it, Ramirez." Barnes motioned with his head for Maggie to approach.

She did as instructed, hesitantly extending her left hand and wrist to the woman, who took it in both hands and surveyed it carefully. "How?" She asked, before turning to Barnes and giving a more in-depth explanation of her question.

"Crushed." Maggie made a crushing motion with her right hand, accompanied by what she hoped came across as a crushing noise.

Barnes translated, and the woman nodded. "Ah." She let go of Maggie's hand and went to the rows upon rows of bracelets. Selecting one, the stall owner returned to where she and Barnes were standing and put the bracelet around Maggie's left wrist. "Not Placebo." The woman said firmly, before making a flexing motion with her hand.

Maggie flexed her hand experimentally and exhaled slowly. It was still stiff, and it still hurt, but it hurt considerably less, and she could actually feel her fingertips, as compared to the fuzzy buzz that she'd experienced for over the past two years. She exhaled sharply, chuckling weakly as she swallowed hard, feeling like she was about to cry. "Thank you." Maggie managed in the little Wakandan she knew. "How much?"

Barnes cut in, speaking in Wakandan with the shop owner. Setting his shaved ice down, he fished through his satchel and removed some money. He thanked the woman, picked back up his shaved ice, and continued walking.

"Barnes." She stammered, trailing behind him.

"Don't worry about it."

"Barnes you, really don't have to do that. You-it's-why-just." Maggie couldn't quite get her words out. She hadn't entirely made out how much money was exchanged, but it wasn't the same as the cost as a snow cone that she knew for sure.

"Not exactly a pair of Wakandan horses, but should be good enough for a belated birthday present." He commented, taking a sizable bite of his shaved ice

"You didn't have to do that." She managed finally.

He chewed and swallowed before replying. "How does your hand feel?"

"That's not the point, Barnes." Maggie said, "How much do I owe you?"

"I said, don't worry about it." He shrugged.

Maggie opened and closed her mouth, trying to find something to say. This was a losing battle. What was she going to do? Go return the bracelet? She looked down at it, glinting in the light. It was a multi-strand bracelet that fastened with a single clasp. Each strand was comprised of two or three wires strung through beads no bigger than a pearl, spaced out at random intervals along each strand. The beads while all grey had different sheens, some more blue or purple, while others were more red or green.

She hadn't bought herself jewelry in years and hadn't received jewelry in just as long. She just didn't wear it mostly, and now she'd been given several very lovely pieces within the span of a few hours.

Yet it was more than just that. It was the fact that this wasn't just something beautiful, but also function, easing a physical pain, a pain that had been inadvertently caused by the gift given. Maggie glanced up at Barnes. Did he realize the symbolism? The significance of his gift? Or was this random act of kindness exactly that, random. It didn't matter_. She_ could see it and would stop being difficult about it, at least for now.

"Thank you, Barnes. It's beautiful and functional. I'll have to find a way to get you back."

"I'd say you really don't have to, but I know you're going to ignore me anyway," Barnes replied.

Maggie smiled, "You're a quick study."

"Wouldn't say _that_ per-say. You're just stubborn. Even I can recognize patterns." He joked sarcastically. Pausing, he glanced over at her, a measure of uncertainty on his face as he tried to figure out if he'd overstepped.

"I _am_ a stubborn ass, I'll grant you, but then again, so are you, James Barnes." She laughed lightly.

"Using first _and_ last names, I see."

At this, Maggie froze. "That's all right, isn't it?"

"You can call me whatever you want, Ramirez. I think you of all people have earned that right."

"Well. That goes for you too. And let me just officially state for the record I'm glad we've moved beyond the point of you calling me ma'am."

"Message received and understood." He replied. "How's your shaved ice?"

"Good." She said, taking a drink of the remaining slush. Maggie paused, mulling over her next words. "Thank you, Barnes, for letting me talk about your sister. I've enjoyed our Tuesday lunches. It's been really nice talking about Becca again. I appreciate it."

Barnes nodded. "Me too, Ramirez."

They both stopped, glancing one another over. Maggie realized that they had returned to the edge of the festival and that the stalls were now only a couple hundred yards away. "Well. Thank you for this, Barnes. It was an adventure." She drank up the rest of the slush, tossing the cup into the recycle bin.

"Thanks for letting me treat you to a birthday snow cone, and a belated gift."

"You strong-armed me on the gift, but I do appreciate it, my hand does feel much better."

"Glad to hear." He finished off his snow cone, likewise throwing the paper cup into the recycle bin.

There was this pause, this moment of hesitation as they both looked each other over as if they were both waiting for the other to say something first.

"I had fun." She said.

"Me too."

"See you on Tuesday for lunch?"

"I look forward to it."

Maggie smiled, "Sounds good. And do let me know if you want or need movie recommendations. Deal?" She extended her hand to him.

"Deal," He nodded. Taking her hand, they shook on it.

His grip was firm, warm, and she couldn't help but notice a little sticky from the shaved ice, but Maggie also couldn't help but notice how cautious it still felt, as though he was afraid he was going to break her.

"Heyi, Cowgirl! Find your ice?" One of her fellow riders called some distance off.

Barnes left go of her hand as if they'd been caught in the act of doing something nefarious or unsavory.

"Yeah, I did." She called back, rolling her eyes.

"They're going to talk." He commented, looking more sheepish than she ever could've imagined possible for a man who'd lived the life he had.

"They were going to talk regardless." Maggie shrugged. "Anyway, I won't detain you any longer. Thanks again for everything. I'll see you on Tuesday."

"See you on Tuesday." He nodded.

Maggie turned and walked back toward the stables, leaving Barnes behind her. It had been a long and exhausting day, but, Maggie would argue, a good one. She paused, glancing over her shoulder at Barnes, who was watching her hasty retreat back to the stables, and a broad smile crossed her face, her right hand going to her left wrist, fiddling with one of the strands of the vibranium bracelet. It _had_ been a good day, and now she had another Tuesday to look forward to in the future.

* * *

A/N: I hope you all enjoyed! It was a pleasure to write this chapter I hope it was a pleasure to read. They're so awkward. I hope to hear what you think! Read and Review (Feed the plot bunnies!) Until next time, Happy Reading!


	38. Casablanca

Author's Note: Marvel owns what it owns, and I own what I own, let's keep it that way shall we? Don't Sue me!

TW: Mention of Suicide, Mention of death, PTSD,

Recommended Listening: Main Title/ Prologue by Warner Bro's Studio Orchestra; Airport Finale/ Here's Looking at you Kid by Warner Bro's Studio Orchestra; It Had To Be You/Shine (Medley)

* * *

Chapter 38: Casablanca

It was Tuesday again, and it had been exactly a week since they'd had their interaction at the fairgrounds. As Bucky approached Jelani's workshop and barn he couldn't help but feel a surge of excitement. He'd looked forward to Tuesday since last Tuesday. He wanted to know if Ramirez had come up with anything new for him to watch, and was equally as eager to share what he'd watched, read, and learned over the last week.

He rounded the final corner, leading to the village, and saw her spread out of on a blanket in their usual spot under one of the massive trees that were clustered around the workshop. Ramirez looked perfectly at ease, her lunch placed out in front of her, she sat crossed legged, a book open across her lap. Her face, while bent in focus and concentration, was partially obscured by a screen of hair. Her hair, rather than wrapped around her head in a braid, hung in a loose braid that ended somewhere around her waist. She brushed loose strands out of her face caught by the light wind, the bracelet around her left wrist glinting in the light.

_So she's actually wearing it._

He felt oddly flattered. Bucky had continuously debated with himself on whether the bracelet had been too much if he'd overstepped the bounds of propriety by buying her something like that. In the end, he'd ultimately decided it didn't matter if it worked for her, and she wore it, great. If not, he'd done it out of an impulse more than anything rational, and there was nothing lost by her not wearing it. But she was wearing it. It made him _happy._

"You wanna unload this now, Ramirez, or after lunch?" He called to her, as he arrived with the feed cart, announcing his presence.

"After. I've already started eating." She answered without looking up from her book.

Bucky nodded, unhooking the mule, whom he'd privately nicknamed Sally, from the cart and tying her off to one of the posts, he collected his satchel and walked over to where Ramirez was sitting.

Sinking down on his regular corner, removed his lunch, and his satchel from his bag, while she silently closed the book, she was reading and set it aside. With a heavy sigh, she looked up at him, "hi."

"Hi."

"How's your week been?" She asked pleasantly, diving into what looked like chopped chicken, mixed vegetables, and couscous.

"Uneventful."

"I take it that's a good thing."

"Yeah." He agreed. "You?"

"I think I can finally say I'm settling into a routine. Trying to find work/life balance. Yanno. Trying to find and maintain good self-care practices for the sake of my mental and physical health."

"How's that working for you?"

"Oh. It's horrible." She shook her head, chuckling lightly. "But, I have been looking forward to lunch today."

"You have?" Bucky asked, wincing internally at the surprise in his own voice.

"Absolutely. Been thinking through pop culture recommendations, and I realized I don't know what you've seen, what you've already been recommended, or what even you'd be interested in reading, watching, or listening to. Other than the fact that you're a huge nerd."

Bucky rolled his eyes, "Thanks for that one, Bec."

"Don't worry, your sister did not discriminate. Steve was...is according to her a huge art snob, who apparently had very strong feelings about Citizen Kane."

Bucky scoffed. "That's putting it mildly. Steve ranted for weeks about that film. 'Oh, boo hoo poor rich guy feels bad about his life, fuck off with your pro-capitalist propaganda.' He was ready to throw fists with Orson Welles, surprised he didn't, to be honest, considering the types of circles Stevie ran in during his showgirl days."

He stopped, looking up at Ramirez, who was watching him with an amused expression. "What?" He asked.

"Sounds like Steve's always been a little shit." She giggled.

"Only a little?"

Ramirez bobbed her head side to side, "Yeah, okay. You make a fair point."

"So why where you and Bec talking about Citizen Kane?"

"Oh. We were talking about the American Film Institute's list of 100 greatest Films."

"Oh yeah." He pulled out his journal and opened it to where he'd started writing out movie suggestions to one corner he'd written out, 'AFI (1998/2007?)' "Which list do you recommend?"

"Oh. Ummm. Jeeze. I've actually never made it through the list. Citizen Kane always hung me up, and I couldn't force myself to watch Casablanca or The Godfather. Riley really was the one to push me to watch things outside of my cinematic wheelhouse. It's a shame really, he would've had a thousand excellent suggestions. I'm far less sophisticated in my movie choices." Ramirez shook her head.

Right. Riley Underdhal, Sam Wilson's partner and Ramirez's husband, deceased. Bucky wasn't sure how to respond, mainly when it came to Wilson or her dead husband, so he pivoted slightly. "Any reason, in particular, why you don't want to watch The Godfather or Casablanca?"

"Eeehhh." She shrugged. "Godfather is hyper-violent, I've read the book, don't really have any desire to see the movie. As for Casablanca." She paused, surveying him. "I'm not entirely a fan of WWII media."

"Oh?" Bucky raised an eyebrow. "Don't tell Steve, he starred in a dozen or so WWII movies."

Ramirez chuckled, shaking her head. "I've seen them, they're terrible."

"They really are." Bucky agreed. "But Casablanca is supposed to be the second or third greatest film of all time."

"Forgive me and my cinema faux pas, but with Citizen Kane as the number one, I'm a little skeptical."

"Well. If you were to ask Steve, after he's calmed down about Orson Welles trying to make us feel sorry for some rich ass-hole, he would explain that Citizen Kane was innovative for how it was shot, the type of lighting, that sort of stuff."

"Well. I'll have to try my luck next time I have a minute with Steve, and ask."

"Well, make sure I'm not around. I don't wanna have to sit through that again."

"Understood and duly noted."

"But really Ramirez. As a resident geezer of the 1940s variety, I gotta ask, what's your beef?"

She snorted, shaking her head."Believe it or not, it's not actually beef with the 1940s, per se. It's about how the war is remembered, and how all the horrible shit has been swept under the rug."

"Well, now, I'm curious."

"The short answer?" Ramirez asked hesitantly, looking him over. "I don't like what war does to people, and I don't like the romanticization of war. WWII get that a lot. It was the Good War, and the 1940s is often looked back upon with rose-colored glasses, despite everything that was actually happening, and the realities of that war on the lives of millions of people."

_Like me?_ He would've asked. But he didn't. They both _knew_ that she meant people like him, only he was an outlier to an already horrible situation. Beyond her present company, she'd spent years helping battle-scarred veterans back at the Ranch, before he came along and ruined it. She had a right to her particular feelings, and she wasn't wrong. It just didn't leave very much room for conversation.

He nodded. There was a long pause as they both tried to find something to say. "For what it's worth, Ramirez. I think you might like Casablanca."

"Oh? And why's that?"

"Call it intuition."

She snorted, "Anything more substantial than that, James Barnes?"

"No."

"No? Come on, man, you can't just recommend it and then not explain why."

"I dunno. I think I just did." He shrugged. "It's been a while. Ask me again after you've watched it."

Ramirez paused. "Okay."

"Just like that?"

"Yeah. I'm willing to give it a shot, do you wanna come over tonight and watch it?"

Bucky blinked blankly as his brain processed what his ears had just heard. An invitation. From Ramirez? "I wouldn't want to intrude," He said, his brain immediately supplying the answer for him.

"Intrude? Barnes, I have absolutely no social life to speak of aside from our Tuesday lunches. Besides, if I'm going to watch this nonsense, I need the resident geezer of a 1940s variety to give me a little bit of context and background."

"I'm going to regret saying that, aren't I?" Bucky rolled his eyes.

"It's very possible." She said, barely containing a shit-eating grin. "Com'on Barnes. It'll be fun. I'll make sopapillas."

Bucky hesitated, thinking through the rest of his day. It wasn't like he was super busy, he did have his routine. He would be going to the capitol for his usual brain check-up with the princess after he finished the feed route. After that, the evening was more or less open. What had he planned to do to occupy himself? Well, he had some reading to do, he was working through suggested Wikipedia articles and memoirs, then whenever he got sick of that or couldn't concentrate, he'd maybe journal a bit. If he felt really ambitious, he'd watch a movie or listen to music, but that was only if his brain wasn't louder than what he was trying to focus on. All of this would be alone, of course, but that's what he was used to. He'd done that for two and half years, and in the month after he'd left cryo when Steve had returned to his life with the Secret Avengers. Alone was quiet. Alone was safe. Alone gave a relative amount of certainty to his life, where he otherwise struggled to achieve normality. Alone meant he wasn't bothering Ramirez any more than his presence already did. Yet, he found that Tuesday lunches were the highlight of his otherwise solitary life, and from the sounds of it, might be Ramirez's too. Perhaps he did need a friend more than he'd previously realized. Maybe they both did.

"Let me think about it." He answered finally.

"Sure." She shrugged, "movie starts at 7:30 with or without your sorry ass."

"Understood. With or without my sorry ass." Bucky replied in an exaggerated monotone.

Ramirez giggled, "Well when you say it that way, it sounds even _sorrier."_

"Thanks for that, Ramirez."

"No problem Barnes."

They spent the rest of the lunch hour talking through both of the AFI greats movie lists. They had others, such as the top 100 Most Inspiring Films of all time, 100 Greatest movie quotes of all time, 100 greatest Romance movies, but for now, the top 100 Greatest American films of all time list was where Bucky was going to start.

"So 7:30, Barnes." Ramirez commented as they finished offloading the feed. "If you'd decided to join me, that is," She added quickly.

"I'll be sure to let you know."

"Well, we need to exchange contact information. Do you have your kimoyo bracelet?"

"No."

"Okay. Well, do you know your number?"

"Oh. no." Bucky said.

"Naturally." She chuckled. "Stay right there. I'm going to get a pen."

"I actually have pretty good information retention."

"I have no doubt, James Barnes. But I'm not going to give you the excuse of 'I forgot,'" She chuckled as she walked back to the workshop.

She re-emerged a moment later with what looked like a felt-tipped pen and uncapped it as she approached. "Hand." She instructed firmly, putting her left hand out.

Bucky rolled his eyes but did as she instructed, and placing his hand in her left palm watched as she carefully wrote out her number on the top of his hand in neat and tidy print. "Did you ever have to memorize a girls' numbers back in the day?"

"No."

"Oh. So this would be a first," She chuckled, blowing gently on the drying ink.

"You could say that, sure."

"Good, good." She said, releasing her grasp on his wrist, and re-capping the pen.

"How's the bracelet working out for you?" He motioned to her wrist with his chin.

"Oh," Ramirez said shortly, massaging her left wrist with her right hand. "I've had no fewer than three people ask we're engaged, which I don't think will be helped by writing my number on your arm. But the bracelet has helped some. See look." She held both her hands up side by side, the left one had a tremor to it, but it wasn't nearly as pronounced as it had been the weeks before. "Not so bad as before. Plus I have more feeling in my fingertips, and not feeling quite as achy. I can't thank you enough."

"I'm glad it's working for you." Bucky nodded. "Lunch was fun, thank you for your recommendations."

"Of course. See you tonight?"

He hesitated, looking her over. "I dunno quite yet." He admitted.

If she was disappointed or relieved, Ramirez's expression didn't show. "Well, if not, see you next week, same time, same place?"

"You can count on it."

"Have a good one, Barnes."

"You too, Ramirez."

"Thanks," She smiled, turning away and walking back to the workshop to return to her tasks for the day.

Taking his mule cart, he started back down the path and returned to his route and the rest of his day.

* * *

Maggie watched Barnes disappeared down the path that led him back to his feed route out of the corner of her eyes, and silently cursed at herself.

_Now,_ _why did I do that? _She wondered as the sound of his cart faded out of earshot. _ I thought I was going to let him control the parameters of our interaction, and now I've gone and invited the guy over to watch a movie._

Things had changed. They'd changed the moment they'd decided to hang out at the midwinter festival over a week ago. They'd moved from work friendship into an ambiguous, precarious state where it could either stay at impersonal work-friendship or they could find themselves develop an actual factual friendship.

Maggie didn't mind the work-friendship. Your friendship began and ended when you clocked in and out. You were happy to bitch about your manager together, but you aren't going to invite them to your weekend cookout. It limited topics of discussion to decidedly safe things, there was no real commitment, and you eventually parted ways when you left your position with the given company.

_You pathetic, sad little woman_.

She didn't like to admit it, but she was lonely and sad. The fact that she'd enjoyed and thought about last week almost constantly was a testament to that fact.

No man should be an island, and even when she'd been at her lowest, she'd always had people there to help her carry her load. On Last Chance Ranch, she'd had her friends, volunteers, clients around that gave her a sense of normalcy and routines. With the Avengers, she'd had Steve, Sam, Natasha, and Becca, with their meetings, briefings, workouts, and lunches. They had all kept her from going completely out of her skull, even if she had been very close a few times.

Now she was here in Wakanda, and she had her work but not much else. That wasn't to say she wasn't grateful. She was. The King, Jelani, Teela, Sisay, and the Princess Shuri, they allowed her to have this little bit of normalcy. But she didn't have friends. The Wakandans had been nothing but kind and generous, and she enjoyed Jelani and Sisay and Teela's company, but they had their lives with their friends and social networks. She was a guest at best, she wouldn't inflict her presence on them any more than she already had. She worked with Jelani and Sisay, and Teela had been tremendously gracious with her time and energy, helping her adjust to life in Wakanda and the village. They were only doing it because their King had asked it of them. Not exactly the best basis to create friendships.

So she worked, and kept her head down, and tried not to make waves. It wasn't much of a life, but it was better than being dead.

It might have even been doable if not for James Barnes.

It wasn't his fault, it was the situation, the circumstances, it was the fact they had a history together, a number of mutual friends, and both knew a shit ton about one another without _really_ knowing the other person.

It was a recipe for disaster, but she was bored and lonely, and watching an old movie with the guy didn't mean anything.

In context, it made sense.

_Which is why you're thinking through the entire conversation you just had with him and analyzing everything._

Well, what else was she supposed to do? She had a lot of time on her hands. She had a safe, beautiful little house, a job, and a routine, but she didn't have a _life_. Sometimes all you could do in that scenario was to analyze every interaction with the only other American in at least 1,000 square miles.

_Which is why you've invited James Barnes over to watch a movie._

She'd invited, he had yet to accept her invitation, but Maggie knew with some certainty she'd be a little disappointed if he didn't show and she might be forced to watch Casablanca by herself.

That was a strange revelation. She wanted to be around him. She wanted to talk to him. She wanted to watch this stupid movie with him. That, like it or not, there was a strange type of familiarity between them. Steve, Becca, and even Sam had created a common ground for them to explore. It connected them in a way that neither of them could deny. They were still on strange, and at times even awkward territory, but he had a quiet type of humor about him, and Maggie could admit that she had more than a little fun giving him shit.

_Yeah, a little shit, which is why you were being cutesy with the whole writing down your number on his hand, you may as well have signed it with little Xs and Os._

It had been the practical thing in the circumstances, and anyway, it wasn't as if Barnes had minded.

_Right, like you could tell._

What did she expect him to do? Wrench his hand away like her touch physically pained him? It was always possible that he'd refrained from doing exactly that, that he'd go home and scrub the writing off.

Would he actually confirm with her one way or the other? It was anyone's guess.

Maggie paused outside of her empty hut and sighed. Her brain was getting away from her. Whatever had happened, it ultimately didn't matter. Whatever Barnes decided she'd abide. For better or worse. Which option was which, Maggie wasn't entirely sure. Still, she had the nagging suspicion that despite herself, the company of James Barnes would be infinitely preferable to spending yet another evening alone.

* * *

Bucky found himself on his back yet again, starring at the ceiling of the Royal Wakandan Laboratory, the vaguest sensation of pine and mint lingering in the edge of his recollection as The Princess worked around him, the only sound in the lab was the Wakandan hip hop she liked to play, though mercifully turned to low.

"So, any plans for this evening?" The princess inquired, breaking their customary silence while she scanned his brain.

Bucky paused, the peculiar innocence of her question, raising several alarms. "Not particularly, why?"

"You have Magdalene's number written on your hand, and you seem to be thinking of her with relative frequency."

"Oh." Bucky glanced down at his hand, where Ramirez had indeed written her number. He frowned. "Wait, I thought you said you couldn't see my thoughts."

"I can't. I've been mapping your brain activity. Certain areas of your brain light up in specific ways when you're thinking about her. Same with Captain Rogers. Although, I only assume the thoughts are about Ms. Ramirez because you had your weekly Tuesday lunch with her."

She wasn't wrong, and yet it took Bucky everything he had not to roll his eyes. '_Is there some sort of betting pool I'm unaware of,' _Ramirez had asked in jest. At the moment, Bucky was beginning to think that she wasn't too far from the truth.

"We aren't trying to put you two together, singing songs in the grass so that you'll kiss, Barnes." The princess commented, shaking her head.

"Little mermaid?" Bucky ventured uncertainly.

"No. I mean, yes, I mean any number of Disney movies, but yes, close enough." She said brusquely. "I only ask, because I'm glad you're having regular human interactions with someone approximating your own age, and with key things in common."

"Key things in common?"

"You're both living and working as guests in my country. You're both friends with Steve Rogers. I'm sure there are other things which you'll only be able to find out if you spend more time together." She commented.

"I thought you said I should minimize stimuli to allow my brain to heal." He said lamely. Knowing that it was a cop-out, at the very best.

"Yes, for like three weeks to a month. I did not spend all that time putting your mind back together for you to isolate yourself from other people forever. If you wanted that, we could just stick you back in the deep freeze. You _need _to be around people and interact with people, not spend your free time moping. You need to _live_."

"I'm not _moping,_and besides, who says she wants anything to do with me?" Bucky protested though he knew it was a losing battle.

"She wrote her number on your hand, James Barnes." The princess said crossly. "That _obviously _indicates at least _some _interest on her part."

This was true, yet he couldn't help but get the feeling that Ramirez was only being hospitable out of some obligation to his sister and to Steve. Yet, the princess made a good point. Ramirez had been fairly adamant about why she didn't want to watch Casablanca, or rather particularly why she didn't like WWII era media. Then, she'd agreed to watch the movie shortly after he'd told her that he thought she might like it. He _did_ believe that she would like it, but for her to agree to give it a shot, and then invite him over to watch it with her, it did indicate a certain willingness to be in his presence beyond their Tuesday lunch hour.

"Would it be so terrible to try to make friends with her, Barnes?" The princess continued when he didn't respond.

_No. It wouldn't._ "I don't think that's entirely up to me, Princess." Bucky managed after a moment.

"Well, I think you should go watch the movie with her and find out." She replied firmly.

"I'll take that under advisement, provided you all stop trying to make Ramirez and me friends," Bucky said blandly.

"Okay, okay. But I stand by what I said, you shouldn't be isolating yourself. Go out, live a little." She replied.

They finished up the scan, and The princess sent him on his way after declaring that his brain was still fatty, wrinkly and that everything still looked just fine.

Bucky walked home engaged in a silent debate with himself the entire time.

He should go watch it with her. He had to admit, beyond the simple question of watching a movie with Ramirez or not watching a movie with Ramirez, he was curious. Curious to know what she thought, curious to unpack her little rant about WWII, curious to know her as a person.

Was that strange? Bucky wasn't sure. It should be strange, or at the very least it should feel strange, but it didn't. He didn't. In fact, he appreciated the very fact that he didn't feel strange when contemplating a friendship with Ramirez, namely because she didn't treat him like an oddity, like some kind of sideshow. Not that the Wakandans really did that. Sure, the kids asked their nosy questions, but otherwise, people were polite. There was a level of separation and a silent curiosity that shaded every interaction he had with people, but nothing that was unbearable or otherwise unexpected.

Bucky knew all about that, but from a lifetime ago and from a different perspective than the one he now inhabited. He'd grown up, after all, in the shadow of The Great War. His father had served and had invited some of his war buddies over to the house for dinner on occasion. He'd worked alongside veterans. He'd grown up seeing Veterans of The Great War, missing limbs, or some of their features. That had been easy for young Bucky to understand why people spoke their names in hushed, often pitying tones.

It was when those same tones were used when discussing Veterans who didn't have a scratch on them that Bucky, as a child, hadn't understood. He remembered the horrible, empty, hollow expression that one of his father's friends from the war had always given Bucky when he'd visited. Wally. His name was or had been. Wally had ended up hanging himself. Winifred Barnes had sent over meals for a month to Wally's widow after the fact.

Shell-shock or War Fatigue, that's what they'd called it and had only started to understand. They had a better name for it now and were starting to develop better treatments for it now, too. As a small child, Bucky had always wondered what could happen to a person to make them like that. Now he didn't need to wonder. Instead, he struggled to remember a time he hadn't been plagued by memories of battlefields, of blood and screaming, of death. Now, he was one of those people, one of those people that got whispered about, because of what had happened to him. One of those people who would've been talked about in sad, mournful tones, normally reserved for those in the past tense.

_I don't like what war does to people._

That's what she'd said, and of course, it only made sense to Bucky that she wouldn't. She'd lost a husband, and friends, and clients to war and it's lingering after-effects. She'd spent her professional life, up until the point that he'd ruined it, helping people like him. Was that was she was doing this? Was that why she was extending the hand of friendship to him? She knew in vivid detail what he was and what he'd been through. Was she trying, in her own way, to fix him out of perhaps some obligation to Steve or to Becca?

It didn't feel that way. And he hoped, perhaps against all hope, that it wasn't the case.

Bucky sighed, shaking his head.

He didn't know and knew he wasn't likely to find out unless he accepted her movie invitation. The problem was he was tired. It wasn't just that he'd not been sleeping well, which he hadn't, but this was a sort of exhaustion, a sort of weariness of the soul. An exhaustion that he felt in his bones. He wasn't sure if he could manage human interaction, at least not where his headspace was at the moment.

_If I could just get one good night's sleep, then maybe I might have the energy for human interactions._

Bucky almost snorted at the very thought, although he wasn't sure at what part of it. The prospect of getting a good night's rest, or the idea that any amount of sleep might enable him to function like a "normal" human being. Both were totally laughable, but he knew Shuri was right. He needed regular interactions, but he didn't want to insert himself into Wakandan social circles, where he would be a guest at the very best and an outsider at the very worst. Which left Ramirez. Was she in the same situation? Is that why she'd invited him over?

_The only way to find out is to accept the invitation and find out._

He arrived home and slipped on his kimoyo bracelet. Opening and carefully typing in Ramirez's number, he hesitated.

_It's not that hard. It shouldn't be this hard._Bucky silently chastised himself.

Taking a deep breath, he typed in the message, "I'm on for a movie 7:30. Should I bring something?" And he hit send before he could second guess himself and delete the message.

The message read as delivered, and Bucky held his breath, watching the "typing" bubble in the corner until her message came through. "Something to drink if you want something other than water. Otherwise, just yourself. 7:30 sharp, Barnes."

He exhaled slowly. Well, that was that. He was _socially_ obligated now, and it would be even worse to cancel plans he'd confirmed than actually going. It was settled he was going to watch Casablanca with Ramirez.

* * *

Maggie stood over the pan, eyes fixed on the frying dough, her ear trained for the sound of approaching footsteps, doing her best not to think about what she had done to herself. _This was a mistake, you should never have extended the invitation._

Barnes had accepted her invitation at a quarter to six, and Maggie had spent the entire hour since then panicking.

Why, exactly, she wasn't sure, but as soon as she'd received his message, her heart rate had soared and she'd more or less decided that she'd rather be back in Juarez facing down the cartels, than hosting a social event. Sure it was just Barnes, and sure they had regularly been meeting every Tuesday for lunch, but it didn't matter. Besides, Tuesday lunches were different. They were on neutral territory for a fixed amount of time, which was far different from an open-ended invitation to hang out and watch a movie.

_I'm making sopapillas for christ's sake. I wouldn't do that for a Tuesday lunch get together._

She flipped over the dough and watched the golden-brown dough crackle and glisten with grease in the evening sun. The torches that illuminated the small area around her hut would turn on soon, the night would take over, and it would be time.

Maggie checked the time, 7:45. _He's late._ She wasn't sure if she should feel relieved or disappointed. Anyway, if he _didn't_ show up, what the hell was she going to do with all of these sopapillas? She'd made six of them, but would probably only eat two or three, at the very most.

_I wonder if Tee or Jelani would be interested...had something happened? Why had he changed his mind? Would he call? Text? Or just wait until next Tuesday to explain. Would he show back up at all? Or have I overstepped some unknown, unseen boundary, and now he never wanted to talk to me again?_

Maggie shook her head, removing the golden-brown squares of dough from the oil, set them aside to drain and cool. She'd even found some Wakandan honey for the occasion. _Oh well. More for me, I guess._

"What happened to starting the movie at 7:30 sharp, Ramirez? With or without my sorry ass, I believe was the expression you used."

It took Maggie everything she had not to jump out of her skin, but she hadn't heard his approach.

_Damn. How the hell did he do that?_ _Well,_ _He's the Winter Soldier you moron._

Maggie turning around, she found James Barnes strolling casually up the path toward her hut. "I lost track of time, what's your excuse?" She said, doing her best to sound light-hearted and as much at ease as she could manage.

"I was on a mission." He admitted hesitantly. Stopping as he reached the fire pit where she was working he, opened the satchel he had slung across his chest and removed a small little pouch, which he extended to her carefully.

Wordlessly, Maggie took it in both hands, and untied the drawstring, glancing inside. "Corn kernels? You found popcorn?" She asked, glancing between Barnes, who wore an uncertain expression, and the small little bag of kernels she was holding.

"Not indigenous to Wakanda. Apparently, King T'Challa's father, King T'Chaka, was a fan of American Cinema, and imported popcorn plant specimens and had some of the farmers carefully cultivate some, so as not to introduce any sort of invasive species. I had to ask around a bit, but was able to procure some kernels for our movie night, this evening." He explained seriously. "Because what's a movie without popcorn?"

Maggie opened and closed her mouth, totally stunned. _How fucking thoughtful. This is unbelievable. What the hell?_

"Thank you, Barnes."

"So, I hope that excuses my tardiness."

Maggie surveyed his expression. Was he joking? Was he being serious? Was he being aloof? She couldn't be certain, but a smile spread across her face. "It will. Only if you agree to make the popcorn. I'm a tad rusty."

"I'll see what I can do." He nodded firmly. "Do you mind if I?" He motioned to his bag.

"Not at all, make yourself comfortable. As promised, I made sopapillas and even found Wakandan honey for the occasion."

"I look forward to trying them." He replied as he set his bag down and glanced around. "Pot with lid, oil, and salt?"

"Yeah, sure. Let me get this pan off the fire." Maggie said, moving quickly replaced the pan with a pot, setting out the oil and salt on the small preparation table beside the cooking fire.

"You excited?" Barnes asked as he worked, diligently adding the oil, kernels, and salt to the pot, covering it, and placing it over the fire.

"About?"

"Casablanca?" He answered without looking up at her.

"Oh. Yeah. Right. Yes." She managed. _That. _She'd nearly forgotten that they were going to be watching a movie together, mostly she'd just been hung up on the idea that he was coming over to hang out with her after working hours.

"Your enthusiasm is overwhelming, Ramirez."

"Was still a little hung up on the idea that you brought popcorn for us." She said, "And If I'm honest, I'm probably _more_ excited about the popcorn than I am the movie. But that's just because I love food. And the combination of the sweet sopapillas and the salty popcorn is going to be _AMAZING._" Maggie caught herself before she could outright giggle, but the sound she made was somewhere between a cough and a laugh, and Barnes looked her over with something between curiosity and amusement.

Mercifully he didn't say anything. "I was thinking about the last movie I saw in theaters. What was the last movie you saw in theaters?"

"Oh. Jeeze, you would have to ask that." Maggie chuckled. Pausing, she closed her eyes, straining to remember the sound of popping from the pot, making it hard to focus. "Disney's Brave, I believe." She stopped. "Oh."

"What?"

"Suzanne dragged me out of the house to see it." _After Riley died._ She had to stop herself from saying it. Maggie opened her eyes and shaking her head.

"Should I add it to the list?" Barnes asked uncertainly as he removed the popcorn from over the fire and set it down on the table beside the sopapillas.

"Oh. It's a fun little movie, but not one of my favorites. What about you?"

"Laura. I think." He answered.

"Oh. I've seen that one! It's great!" Maggie said.

"Really? I thought you didn't like 1940s media."

"I didn't say that. I don't like WWII media. If I'm remembering the same film, it's not WWII related, at all. Is it the one where Laura is "killed," and the detective is trying to find out who killed her, and then she ends up not actually being dead?"

"That would be the one."

"It has one of my favorite lines. 'You ever known a woman who wasn't a doll or dame detective McPherson?'" Maggie said in her best Clifton Webb impersonation. She giggled, shaking her head. "My girlfriend, at the time, Margaret convinced me to watch it. For Halloween, actually."

Barnes opened his mouth to respond, but stopped, closing his mouth promptly.

"Didn't expect that one did you?" She asked, raising an eyebrow.

"You didn't both go by Maggie, did you?"

Now it was her turn to be surprised. She opened and closed her mouth a couple of times before shutting it.

"Didn't expect that one did you?" Barnes echoed, also raising an eyebrow.

Maggie chuckled, "No. Actually. But to answer your question, she went by her full name, and I was either Maggie or Mags. But I can imagine how confusing it would've been if we'd both gone by Maggie."

"I can imagine." He paused, a look of hard contemplation crossing his face. Maggie braced for whatever was next before he spoke. "And the line is 'did you ever know a woman who wasn't a doll or a dame?' I _do _remember that much."

She smiled, the tension in her chest easing slightly. "Okay, okay. I defer to you as to the accuracy, but I'll maintain my version is superior. Did you like the movie at the very least?"

"I did."

"Well. Let's find out if you're right."

"Right?"

"See if I'm going to like Casablanca."

"Right."

"Come on. Bring the popcorn. We're going to sit inside if that's okay. I set up a screen and will project it from one of my kimoyo beads. I've made sopapillas as promised, and have Wakandan honey to put on top. Otherwise, you're just going to get a wad of fried dough." She explained picking up the plate of sopapillas and honey, and he followed her into her small hut with the popcorn. "Provided you don't mind sitting on my mat." She commented, sinking down easily onto the floor.

"Not at all." He shook his head, pausing he glanced her over.

From her vantage point on the floor, Maggie watched Barnes struggle as he contemplated where exactly he should sit. Doing the same algebra, and reaching similar conclusions, Maggie moved the plate of sopapillas to her left, and following suit, Barnes sat down to her left, setting the pot of popcorn between them.

"Pillows and blankets can be provided upon request. Let me know." She commented as she set up the kimoyo bead and began to project the film.

"I should be fine. The movie isn't that long." He replied, picking up a spoonful of honey and drizzling it over one of the sopapillas.

"Well, here goes nothin'." She said as she pressed play.

The Warner Brother's logo came up and then the 1940s black and white map. Maggie couldn't help but watch Barnes out of the corner of her peripheral vision. He was here. They'd had a _relatively _normal conversation. They were going to watch a movie while eating homemade snacks, and somehow despite herself, she was having a lovely time. Was he having a good time? She could only guess. Were they becoming friends? Only time would tell. But the whole thing hadn't felt awkward, even though it probably should. Instead, it had felt natural, had felt almost normal. What it meant, Maggie would discover later, but for now, Casablanca.

_But the others wait in Casablanca...and wait...and wait...and wait._

* * *

_"Louie, have your man go with Mr. Lazlo, and take care of his luggage."_

Bucky glanced over at Ramirez, her eyes were glued to the screen, the flicking light of the screen reflecting in her eyes. She absently chewed on the popcorn as she watched, seemingly totally engrossed. He'd forgotten quite a bit of the film since he'd first watched it, and it still held up even now over seventy years later, but what made the whole thing worthwhile was Ramirez's reactions to the movie with her eye-rolling and frustrated groaning at all the key moments. They'd eaten the Sopapillas in the first act, and now they were working through the ample supply of popcorn, but mostly, Bucky was watching Ramirez.

He'd felt bad about arriving late, but apparently, Ramirez hadn't minded. She'd been very enthusiastic about the popcorn, more so than he'd expected, but the whole exchange about her ex-girlfriend had been, _strange,_ to say the very least. It had taken him off guard how open and blasé she'd been about mentioning a girlfriend. Yet, Bucky found that logically it made sense, she hadn't made a fuss or a big deal over the fact that he'd had relationships with both Steve and Natasha, and the way he'd understood it, through Steve, Ramirez and Sam had been in a polyamorous triad with Riley, prior to his death. Still, the fact that she'd felt comfortable enough to out herself, to him, in such a relaxed and casual way, there was something about that made Bucky's chest warm.

Other than their briefly awkward exchange, the evening was going well, he would argue. He'd even made her laugh. She had seemed a little tense when he'd first arrived, but that had quickly dissipated, and now her whole demeanor was relaxed. Her braid had almost completely unwound itself, and her hair fell over her face. Her rigid posture had melted into something softer, her shoulder's less tense, her jaw not quite as clenched, her eyes and mouth bent in natural smiles and laughs.

_"You're saying this only to make me go!"_

_"_ _I'm saying it because it's true. Inside of us we both know you belong with Victor, you're part of his work, the thing that keeps him going. If that plane leaves the ground and you're not with him, you'll regret it."_

"Lord," Ramirez said, her Texan twang thick with sarcasm.

_"Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon, and for the rest of your life."_

_"_ _But what about us?"_

"Oh, Honey." Ramirez rolled her eyes before taking another handful of popcorn from the bottom of the pot.

_"_ _We'll always have Paris. We didn't have, we'd lost it, until you came to Casablanca. We got it back last night."_

_"_ _I said I would never leave you."_

"Oye." She scoffed.

_"_ _And you never will. But I've got a job to do too. Where I'm going, you can't follow. What I've got to do you can't be any part of. Ilsa, I'm no good at being noble, but it doesn't take much to see that the problems of three little people don't amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world. Someday you'll understand that. Now, now...here's looking at you, kid."_

"Jeezus Christ." She muttered. She glanced over at him, catching his gaze. A faint blush rose on her cheeks, and she quickly fastened her eyes back on the screen.

Bucky smiled to himself. As he'd said before, it wasn't a bad bit of propaganda. He'd watched it, and generally enjoyed it when it had come out in theaters. He could certainly see how people would continue to like it even after the war ended. People loved a rogue, and Rick was undoubtedly that. Ramirez's reactions, however, had added a whole new element to the viewing process. What she reacted to and why were surprising, compared to what he thought might draw a reaction from her.

_"Louie, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship."_ The music swelled La Marseilles blared, and "THE END" came up on the screen.

Ramirez stopped the film, the hut dropped into silence, and the dim lights of the hut flickered on, giving everything an orange tinge. She starred at the wall a moment, chewing the inside of her mouth. Bucky watched her expectantly. "So...?"

"Give me a minute," She answered distantly. After several beats of silence, she turned to him, her tone all business. "I think all of this could be solved with Polyamory. Understanding that Ilsa was both in love with Lazlo and Rick, in different ways, would've solved the _whole_ situation, with, of course, the exception of the Nazi problems. "

"Yeah. They tend to be a _little_ more difficult to deal with."

"Historically, a bullet has been a pretty good solution."

"Well, you're not _wrong._"

Ramirez chuckled. "But yeah. Otherwise, it was a fairly compelling plot. I personally couldn't wear Ilsa's wardrobe, but I am seriously envious of it." She paused, glancing over at him. "So I gotta ask, why you'd think it'd like it?"

"Oh." Bucky should've expected this, and had an answer prepared. He had thought she'd like it this afternoon, but he really had just had a hunch, now he had to come up with something more substantial. "Because it's about people making the best out of a shitty situation." He blurted out.

"And that's something you think I'd know all bout, huh?"

"I wasn't going to say that. I just figured you'd appreciate it."

"True. Although you have to admit, it was some good ole' fashioned American anti-isolationist propaganda."

"It is. Does that tarnish your opinion of it?"

"Not entirely. I'm not about to tar all WWII movies with the same brush...well not completely. It was a good movie, but I'm not sure if it's something that I'd watch repeatedly." She paused, thinking a moment. "You're obscenely old, right?"

"In theory, yes. What's your point?"

"What does 'here's looking at you kid' actually mean? Other than being terribly condescending for Rick to be calling a grown woman kid. I mean, like I get that, it's a toast, but what does it mean, like really mean?"

"It means what it means." Bucky shrugged.

"That's not a real answer, and you know it, Barnes," Ramirez said, her face scrunched up in a playful frustration.

"You said it yourself, it's a toast. A way to commend someone. What do you want me to say?" Bucky paused and cracked a small, almost maniacal smirk. "I'll have to use it so you can see how it works, 'contextually,'" He said as he made air quotes with his hand.

"Is that a threat or a promise?"

"Both?"

"Oh no, I can't handle that level of cheesy nonsense in my life, James Barnes." Ramirez shook her head, wagging her right pointer finger at him, a broad grin on her face.

"Can't or won't?"

"Both."

"I see."

Ramirez giggled, "You're a menace, Barnes." She shook her head, freeing her hair from the last remains from the braid of the day, allowing it to fall freely over her shoulders and down her back. The ends of it landing near her waist.

"I do my best."

"I'm sure."

There was a pause in the conversation as they both surveyed one another. Her cheeks were flushed, and she was smiling, her expression open and honest, her dark eyes warm and kind as she watched him, her pupils larger than usual because of the dim light. They looked darker than the night sky, and the lights of the hut reflected in them like stars. Her dark hair framed her face and ended near her waist so that it looked like a dark shawl in the dim light. Realizing he was staring, Bucky cleared his throat, glancing around. "So. What's next on the list?"

"The Godfather."

"Which you said you didn't want to watch."

"Yes, well, but given I just sat through number two, I should, for the sake of completion, watch number three," Ramirez faltered. "I mean if that's okay. I mean, if you _want_ to include me in your watching marathon." She stammered, a blush only further flushing her cheeks.

"Well," Bucky said slowly in contemplation while his brain silently screamed '_She wants to watch another movie with me?'_ "I guess we should decide what list we're going to use. The 1998 or 2007 one?"

"Well, we've started the '98 list, _technically_."

"_Technically_, it doesn't matter."

"True." She laughed, "Umm, the newer one would have more films I'm familiar with."

"Should that be a bonus or a detractor."

"Yanno, I don't know, I watched like five movies on rotation for years, and old tape recorded telenovelas."

"Which five movies."

"Oh, no, I'm not outing myself like that." Ramirez shook her head.

Well, now he was even more curious, but Bucky knew better than to push his luck. "Okay. So. I propose a more holistic approach."

"All right. I'm down for being more holistic. What's the plan then, Barnes?"

"We switch off between lists, cross off what one list covers if we've watched."

"Okay, sounds reasonable. We counting Citizen Kane done?"

"Yeah. I'm not going to put anyone through that again. If I'm feeling nostalgic, maybe, but I won't inflict it upon you."

"Well, don't hurt yourself, Barnes." She snorted. "So, our next one is The Godfather?"

"It would appear so."

"So. When and where?"

"Friday? My place?" Bucky suggested.

"That sounds good. You'll have to give me co-ordinates unless you plan on extracting me from the jungle again."

"Yeah, I'd rather not."

They tapped their wrists together, and the kimoyo bracelet buzzed, indicating the data exchange. "Awesome. So what time do you want me?" Ramirez commented as she pulled up the coordinates to his hut, and programmed them into her bracelet.

"7:30 pm works for me."

"Okay, so it's a date." She stopped. "I mean, not a date. I mean-"

Was he making her flustered? It appeared so. And against his better judgment, he enjoyed watching her being more awkward than he felt constantly. Still, it felt a little mean to let her continue like this. "I'll see you then." He interrupted her mid stammer.

"Yeah. Is there anything you want me to bring?"

"If you want to make sopapillas again. Otherwise, I think I can handle popcorn."

"Understood."

Then without further discussion, they both rose, brushed themselves off and collecting the dirty dishes headed back out into the night air.

"This was fun, Ramirez. Thank you for entertaining 1940s media." He said as she took the popcorn pot from him.

"Thank you for entertaining my asinine questions." She nodded appreciatively.

"They weren't asinine." Bucky protested. "Although Steve would've been able to answer them better than I did."

"I thought you did just fine, James Barnes." She chuckled and they both paused.

"I should head back. Thank you again, this was fun."

"Thank you. Let me know when you make it back."

"Why?"

"So, I know if I should send out the Wakandan National Guard or what have you." She smiled. "It's a long walk back, it'll help me sleep better to know you've made it and haven't been eaten by panthers or anything."

"I appreciate your concern, Ramirez. I'll be sure to let you know."

"Sounds good."

"Night."

"Night." She called after him as he walked away.

Bucky could sense her watching him as he walked down the path and out of sight. So she'd enjoyed the film. That had been a relief, on a personal and social level. The entirety of the evening had been less socially award than he'd expected. He'd enjoyed himself, but that seemed the going trend with him and Ramirez, or at least how it appeared.

Whistling the La Marseilles's as he walked back under the clear Wakandan night sky, Bucky wondered what Steve was doing. Was he safe? Was he sleeping, or was he awake on first or even second watch? He certainly wasn't watching movies from the "good ole days" in a remote corner of Africa. Bucky wondered what Steve, or Romanoff, or even Wilson would've said in response to what had just transpired. They'd probably give him shit, Steve _especially_would've given him shit, since he and the other commandos had entertained long rambling conversations about the movie during the war. But that was okay, Bucky decided, he wouldn't mind being given a little shit.

He paused outside, overlooking the lake, taking in some of the warm evening air. He was going to be seeing Ramirez again, and soon. They were going to watch The Godfather. There would hopefully be more opportunities than just the one on Friday, but it was a start. It was a start, a chance, an opportunity for friendship.

A broad smile passed over his face, it came fast and was gone just as quickly, but nevertheless, for a fraction of a moment, it had existed. "Well." He chuckled to himself. "Here's looking at you, kid."

* * *

A/N: Well, that's fun! I hope you had as much fun reading this as I had writing it! The AFI lists are available online for anyone who is interested. I took a film class back in high school, and my instructor referenced the AFI lists. I think it is fascinating to see what is on the list v.s. what didn't make the cut. What movies are your favorite? What Films do you think Bucky and Maggie would enjoy? Or would dislike for that matter? As always, comments are welcome and pleasing to the plot bunnies. Until Next time, Happy Reading!


	39. Never Gonna Dance

Author's Note: Marvel owns what it owns, and I own what I own, let's keep it that way shall we? Don't Sue me!

A/N: I would like to thank everyone who commented with suggestions and thoughts about what movies they think Bucky and Maggie would watch together. I'm glad that struck a chord (and it makes sense for many of us being inside watching movies is all we've got atm)!

Recommended Listening: Happy by Pharrell Williams; In the Mood by Glenn Miller; Sing Sing Sing by Louis Prima; Stardust by Willie Nelson; Into the Night by Santana ft. Chad Kroeger; Never Gonna Dance by Fred Astaire

* * *

Chapter 39- Never Gonna Dance

'_Because I'm Happy, Clap along if you feel like a room without a roof...' _

Bucky heard the music long before he'd made it to the source, echoing out a fair distance up the path from Jelani's workshop, and likely to the culprit of the noise. He'd been by yesterday for the usual feed delivery and their Tuesday lunch. Not like they hadn't seen one another since last Tuesday. After Casablanca, they'd watched The Godfather on Friday and then started Raging Bull on Monday. They'd had to stop about halfway through, and reading the synopsis decided that highly acclaimed film or not, it wasn't worth their time.

Then yesterday, during their usual lunch hour, they'd made plans to watch Gone With the Wind next, though they hadn't pinned down a time. Now he'd been sent on an errand by Omondi, and Bucky had been unable to reach either Ramirez or Jelani, and he had a feeling he knew why.

He stopped as he came up the path to the workshop where Ramirez was working. Well, Bucky couldn't exactly call what she was doing work. Instead, she was dancing, utterly unaware of his presence. She hadn't heard his approach, and so she danced and sang to herself, belting out the lyrics gleefully. It was a private, almost intimate moment as he watched as she was completely vulnerable and open, without any inhibitions. A moment, he was wrongfully witnessing and intruding upon.

"So, that's what you kids call dancing nowadays?" Bucky said, loud enough to pierce through the din and announce his presence.

Ramirez jumped, startled. Wheeling around to face him, she turned off the music. "Jeezus Barnes, how long have you been standing there?" She gasped, her cheeks tinged pink, her chest heaving from the momentary fright.

"Long enough to realize how long I've been out of the world." He answered vaguely as he took a few steps toward her. "Damn. I'm old." He shook his head, chuckling to himself.

"Obscenely." She agreed, walking from the workshop to where he was standing under the tree where they usually met for lunch on Tuesdays, eyeing him curiously.

"So I take it you go out to night clubs and do...that?" Bucky continued, just to see if her blush would spread to the rest of her face and the tips of her ears like Steve.

Instead, she raised an eyebrow. "What are you implying, exactly?" Ramirez answered skeptically, though, with a heavy dose of good humor.

"Nothing." He shrugged, as innocently as he could manage.

She snorted, shaking her head. "Well. Fair is fair, Barnes. How exactly did you "kids" dance back in the day?"

"We danced."

"No, Shit. Let's see it."

"What? Right now?" He asked, glancing around.

"Not scared, are you?" A huge grin spread over her face.

"What? No. No. I happen to be missing some essential prerequisites." He chuckled, shaking his head.

"Such as?" She led expectantly.

"An arm for one, and a partner who knows what they're doing for two," Bucky answered, hoping that the hint would be enough for her to drop it.

"James Barnes, I'm hurt you think so little of me."

"After that?" He motioned vaguely, "shouldn't I?"

"Ouch!" She threw her hand against her chest, melodramatically. "You cut me deep, Barnes. You cut me real deep."

"You're funny," Bucky said dryly.

"But Seriously. Show me your moves, how hard could it be?"

Was that a dare? He was almost sure it was. He paused, licking his lips. Well, this had certainly taken an unexpected turn. God, how long had it been? 70-75 years or so. It would be fun, something from the old days, something familiar. He starred down, trying to think through the logistics. The left hand and arm did the hard work. The right arm was basically for balance.

_I could reverse it. Use the right hand for everything, and she'll just have to balance herself._

Then there was teaching her the steps. Sure he'd done it with Steve, a million years ago, but that had been when he'd had both arms, and he wouldn't have to reverse engineer the entire thing twice over. It was one thing to mirror or flip which direction you were going. It was another thing to teach it. Bucky looked up at her, meeting her dark, expectant gaze. "Alright. Alright, fine. But if we're going to do this, you're going to have to step on my toes."

"I thought we wanted to avoid that," She said with a pronounced twang.

"So I can show you the steps," Bucky replied shortly.

"No. What am I five?" Ramirez shook her head, removing her work gloves, she shoved them in her back pocket, brushing her hands off.

"I taught Becca how to dance that way. It works."

"What? When she was five?"

"No. She was twelve."

"Not better, Barnes." She laughed.

He examined her expression. Was she laughing at him? At his discomfort? He could feel it coming off him in waves. He hadn't done this in 75 years, to begin with, never mind with only one arm. Now here he was, and she was being like _this._ Was it just to watch him squirm? Did she know what she was doing? What she was asking?

"Forget it." He said. "It was a stupid idea, anyway."

"Hey," Ramirez said, her tone more gentle now, she took a step toward him. "Just show me the steps. We can practice it a few times and go from there."

"It's not that...it's just..." He couldn't quite verbalize it, but it just felt dumb. Like he was trying to prove something to himself, to her, that he could still do what old Bucky could do.

"Hey." She repeated, she reached out to put her hand on his shoulder, but stopped, letting it fall back down by her side. "This will be fun. Let it be fun."

Bucky looked her up and down. She didn't appear to be making fun of him, she looked like she was actually serious, that she did want him to teach her, that she was curious and did want to know how he danced back in the day.

"Okay." He exhaled, "okay, okay." He nodded, running his fingers through his hair. "So, the steps are step, step, rock step, then repeat. In any normal circumstance, the man would lead to his left, your right but-"

"So to my left, then?"

"Yeah." Bucky took another deep breath. "So yeah, let's practice that."

He took her left hand in his right, and she placed her right hand firmly on his left shoulder. The familiarity of the action would have been comforting if he hadn't had to lead. "Okay, on my count," Bucky said, and Ramirez nodded. "Step," he stepped the wrong way, and Ramirez let out a laugh as he stepped on her foot.

"Maybe I should step on your toes so you won't step on mine." His face flushed a deep scarlet. She cleared her throat, smoothing out her expression. "One bad start isn't the end of the world. Let's go again."

He counted off again, and this time used the correct foot, and they slowly worked their way around the barn. Ramirez focused down on her feet, chanting along as he said the steps in time. "So, there you have it." He said as they came to a stop. He let go of her hand, wiping his sweating palm on his pant leg.

_You could've done this in your sleep back in the day, what's wrong with you Barnes? _

_Seventy-five years and one twice amputated arm._ The bitting little voice in the back of his head answered.

"Well, that was fun, can we try it with music? Something up-tempo?" Her voice brought him back

Bucky surveyed her. She looked so sincere. It would've been very nearly endearing had he not been totally on edge. "You have something in mind?" He asked dryly.

"I'm more than a little partial to Glenn Miller's In the Mood." She replied.

"Miller?" He echoed skeptically. She was a beginner, at absolute best, and she wanted to attempt "In the Mood?" This was only going to end in utter catastrophe.

"Yeah. Why?"

Bucky could've suggested any number of slower songs to start with if it had been 70 years ago, but now his mind drew a blank. _Damn. _"That's a bit fast, don't you think?" Bucky raised an eyebrow, trying to save them the shame and embarrassment this was surely going to cause.

"You're a good teacher." She smiled warmly. "I trust you."

_Trust. _Right. That. She trusted him, how could she? Why would she?

"What'll it hurt?" She supplied uncertainly.

_A lot. It could hurt a lot. _He wanted to say, but he couldn't, and so he didn't. Instead, he cleared his throat. Exhaling sharply, he managed an, "Alright then, you ready?" He looked down at her. Her whole body language had changed. She looked focused, yes, but there was something about her that looked...he couldn't quite put a name to it. Eager? Perhaps. Determined? Certainly. But something, almost mischievous, danced on her expression.

"Yes."

"All right, In the Mood by Glenn Miller, it is," He said, watching as she keyed it up on the Kimoyo bracelet, listening as the familiar tones began to filter through the speakers and fill the air around him.

At this, Ramirez extended her hand to him, which he took, and she placed her right hand on his shoulder again, just liked they'd practiced. He wished she wasn't looking at him like that, all trust and enthusiasm and willing, like this wasn't going to end anything other than embarrassment and disaster.

"I follow your lead." She said, a smile in the corner of her mouth.

Bucky nodded, and they began. Mercifully he started on the correct foot and counted as they moved, watching their feet to make sure he didn't step on hers. Ramirez, it seemed, moved almost effortlessly, responding to his verbal and non-verbal cues. "You're a quick-" He looked up and met her gaze. "You've done this before." He said.

Her demure smile spread into a wide grin. "Once or twice." She coughed politely, smoothing her expression.

Bucky nodded, wordlessly looking back down at his feet, watching as they moved. _Once or twice. _It felt like a gut punch.

She moved with confidence and ease. She'd clearly done this more than just a handful of times. So why hadn't she told him? Why hadn't she said something? Had she been waiting to see what he'd do, being down an arm? Was this some kind of private joke or prank? Had she felt sorry for him? Bucky didn't know, but he wasn't sure he wanted to find out. He couldn't bear the thought of anyone, never mind someone like Ramirez pitying him.

_I trust you. _She'd said.

What could she possibly mean by that? There were no stakes in this. She knew what she was doing. She didn't have to trust him for anything. Was she saying she trusted him not to hurt her? Trusted him to know how to lead? Trusted him not to make a complete ass of himself? Why would she tell him that she trusted him but not tell him that she knew how to swing dance?

His mind spun, and he could feel a sourness at the back of his throat.

The song ended, and they stopped, stepping backward away from one another, Bucky practically wrenching his hand away.

If she noticed anything, Ramirez didn't say anything. Instead, she chuckled, muttering, "God, its been forever since I've done that," more to herself than to him.

Looking back up at her, Bucky watched for any hint of sarcasm. He found that there was none, not a trace or hint of it anywhere in her expression, her tone. She was serious. Beyond just that, there was a sort of tenderness, a sort of softness to her voice that took him aback.

"When was the last time you danced?" He asked. It was the best compromise he could come up with, rather than asking, 'why didn't you tell me you could dance?'

"Oh. It's been a while. Since before, Riley died. Of course, he was the reason that I learned. Sam and I took swing lessons with Riley for a 1940s themed military ball back before we were married." She answered. "To be honest, I wasn't sure if I remembered _how_ to dance like that. Thanks for the refresher, Barnes." Ramirez smiled.

Bucky nodded. Trying to find his way through the rush of emotions he was feeling. He felt oddly on edge like Ramirez was making fun of him somehow, but that wasn't the case at all. She wouldn't? Would she?

_Why does it matter, Barnes? Why do you care?_

Because he wanted Ramirez to be his friend, he realized. Because he didn't want her to be one of those people that whispered behind his back as he went past. He wanted something _normal _in his life, and a friendship between him and Ramirez was about as normal as things might get for him, despite how abnormal their entire situation might be. He wanted that, but he also knew how impossible it all might be.

"Was that your first dance since 1945?" Ramirez asked her voice, pulling him out of his head.

"Yeah." He nodded, bracing himself for whatever comment was to follow.

"You dance very well. You're an excellent leader. When I was learning with Riley and Sam, neither of them could ever quite get the hang of leading."

_I'm an excellent leader, really? _That had been nothing compared to when he'd been in his prime, before all of _this._ "You're a good follower." Bucky managed.

"Really?" Genuine surprise crossed her face. "I've always been told that I'm a horrible follower, from when my brother taught me to two-step when I was about six, all the way through proper dance lessons with Riley and Sam."

"You did pretty well, following a guy with one arm." He said, his voice dripping in self-deprecating sarcasm.

"Rather a guy with one arm, than one with two left feet." She chuckled, not unkindly. "All things considered? I think we both did rather well." Pausing, she cocked to the side as the first notes of Sing, Sing, Sing (With a Swing) started to play. "Oooh." She cooed. "This is a good one."

"You want to go again?" Bucky asked hesitantly, not sure if her reaction was an indication of willingness.

Ramirez raised an eyebrow, "Is that an offer, James Barnes?"

He hesitated. Did he? Did he want to go again? Give it another shot, now that he knew Ramirez wasn't a beginner, and that she might be able to handle going that fast. "Sure." He extended his hand to her, which she took, smiling.

They were able to fall easily into rhythm. The song was, of course, as uptempo as you could get without it being ridiculous. Soon they were moving at some speed around the clearing under the tree, and Ramirez twirled and spun around him with ease. Bucky's mind worked in double time, trying to remember as much as he could and compensate for his missing limb simultaneously. The music blared, and Ramirez laughed breathless as they moved at a nearly frantic pace for two people so clearly out of practice, only a step or two away from total calamity. Yet, Ramirez didn't hesitate as he led her, totally trusting that he would catch her, that he wouldn't lead her astray.

Then he heard it before he realized what was happening. "SHit!" Ramirez screeched, reaching out to try to correct she grabbed a wad of his scarf, and they were both topping toward the ground.

Bucky braced, turning his body so he wouldn't land on top of her and rolled away as they both hit the ground. "Music off!" Ramirez groaned, and the music faded into silence.

"You alright?" Bucky asked, lifting himself into a sitting position. "Ramirez?" He turned to her

She lay flat on her back with a slightly dazed expression on her face, her chest heaving. Then much to his surprise, she started to laugh uncontrollably. She laughed, and laughed, and laughed a deep-chested, nearly full-body laugh. Tears streamed down her face as she gasped for air between peals of laughter. Bucky sat frozen, unsure if he should call for help. "I-I-I'm o-ok-okay!" She gasped out, trying to catch her breath. She wiped at her face with the heels of her hands, her breath shuddering as the laughter subsided.

Her face was flushed as she sucked in air in large heaving gulps, but there was a massive grin on her face, her eyes closed, a relaxed near peaceful aura exuded from her. Bucky sat beside her, watching as she collected herself, lying in the dirt flat on her back in the middle of the yard. "I think that might be the closest to flying that I'm ever going to get," She commented breathlessly, but offered no further explanation. Then after a moment, Ramirez sat up. "Sorry about that." She winced, rubbing the back of her head gingerly. "You okay there, Barnes?"

"Ye-yes?" He stammered, surprised by her inquiry. "Why?"

"I did pull you to the ground, and then burst into hysterics. That's more than enough reason to ask you if you're all right." She said, brushing off her sleeves and picking grass from her clothes and hair. "So, you all right?"

"Yeah." Bucky managed with a little bit more of a convincing tone. She was worried? About hurting or upsetting him? He couldn't quite wrap his head around the idea, particularly since that even down an arm, he could probably still seriously injure, if not kill her. It wasn't something that he _liked _thinking about, but it was the reality of the situation. Yet, here they were, Ramirez was asking if she had hurt him.

"So. Now that I've sidetracked you completely. Did you need something? Or were you just here to judge my dancing skills?"

"Oh. Right. Yeah." Bucky said, remembering why he'd initially been sent. "Omondi needed to borrow a couple of tools from Jelani."

"That's right, Jelani did tell me that Omondi might be sending someone by. I didn't know it was going to be you." She commented, rising to her feet, doing her best to brush the dirt and grass off her clothing. "Let me get those for you." She said, rushing back into the workshop.

"Omondi and his village are going to slaughter and roast some of the herd tonight, in honor of the King's birthday. He asked me to pass along the invitation to you, and Jelani and his family to join him." Bucky called, hoping that his voice was carrying over the sound of bumping and crashing noises coming from the workshop.

"Jelani and Sisay mentioned something about that before they left on their house call." She answered, from somewhere out of his direct line of sight.

"So you'll come?" He asked, wincing at the overeager hopefulness in his voice. "I mean if you want. You don't have to if you have something else going on. Just thought I'd offer."

"I was thinking about it. It's been a while since I've had cabrito." Ramirez mercifully interjected into his ramblings as she re-emerged from the shed, carrying a small tool bag in both hands. "Here you are." She said, stopping a few feet in front of him and extending the pouch to him.

"Thanks." He took it from her, adjusting the weight in his hand. Bucky stopped, watching Ramirez curiously as she ran her foot over the dirt as if looking for something.

"Ah, ha! There it is." She looked up at him, an expression of triumph across her face. "The only major dip in this entire patch of ground, and I find it with my foot while going approximately 100 miles an hour."

"Approximately?" Bucky echoed.

"Yeah, approximately," She chuckled, shaking her head. "Again, thank you for humoring me. It's been a long while since I've danced with anyone. Really, Barnes, I appreciate your patience and willingness."

Bucky nodded slowly, still feeling on edge, still feeling like he was being made the butt of some joke, but also feeling less so than he had before. "You'll have to teach me some of your moves, sometime, Ramirez."

"You can count on it." She said, her grin widening. "But I'll let you get back to it. See you tonight?"

"Sounds good. I'll see you then." He nodded before making his way from the workshop.

Walking back down the path, he heard her put on music again. This time it was softer, quieter. He could just make out the tune, Stardust. It was the version of the song she'd played back on the ranch, and it was a sad, practically mournful little melody.

_What have I done?_ He couldn't help but wonder. Everything felt wrong. Something had happened. They'd been joking around, and then it hadn't been a joke anymore. They'd been having a casual conversation, and then it hadn't been. In an instant, something harmless had become harmful; something innocent had become volatile. They'd crossed a line, how and why, and in what way, Bucky wasn't entirely sure. What had her comment about flying been about? Why did he feel there was somehow a connection between Stardust, her dead husband, and the comment. To him was the logical progression, but what did it all mean?

Then, on top of wondering what was going on with Ramirez, he felt angry for some reason, if not a bit hurt. Not at her, per se, but at the entire situation. _Why can't you act normal for once? _His brain screamed at him. This wouldn't have been a problem for him, way back when. He wouldn't be micro-analyzing every conversation, wouldn't be concerned with what she thought, wouldn't have a reason to be concerned if this was 1942 if he was the Bucky from before all of this, all of this _shit. _

_Well, it's not 1942, pal._

That was the reality, and that was the problem. He wasn't the Bucky from before, from 1942, there was no way he could be; he knew this on an instinctive, nearly cellular level. Yet he wanted to be. Ramirez, for whatever reason, made him want to be the man he'd been before.

Bucky shook his head. It didn't matter. It was a stupid and impossible thought anyway. The idea of normal, the idea of him being normal now or ever again, was utterly ridiculous. What exactly their little exchange meant, what any of it meant would have to be left until later, if she actually came to the party, and if he got a chance to talk with her. Until then, he was left with only his thoughts and consolation in the Stardust of a song.

* * *

_Magdalene Ignacia Ramirez! What have you done? _Maggie could practically hear Riley laugh as he rushed to turn off the water main. They'd been doing some renovations on the kitchen, and one false move had busted one of the old pipes, quickly sending water everywhere and soaking her to the bone.

That's what this felt like. That she'd made one false move, and now water was spouting from the line and drenching everything within reach. She hadn't meant to, she really hadn't, but in the pit of her stomach, she knew that her intentions didn't matter.

She'd crossed a line, crossed an invisible boundary. It had been written all over the man's face. She hadn't really thought about what she was asking. It hadn't occurred to her what dancing might mean to him, might represent. To be honest, Maggie really hadn't thought anything of it. Barnes had made fun of her dancing, and so she had asked him to show her how he'd danced back in the day. Part of her had been trying to figure out how far she could push him, how flustered she could make him if she could rustle his feathers. Boy had she been successful. Probably a little too successful.

That was until she'd seen it on his face. She shouldn't have pushed him, should've told him that she did know how to dance. But that hadn't been the point, it hadn't matted, or at least she'd thought it hadn't mattered.

Then there had been the pure leaden resignation in his voice when he'd realized, and she'd seen the full brunt of her mistake written all over his face.

_Damn._

Frankly, she felt like an ass. Mostly, She'd been an idiot. She should've just stopped pushing, stopped insisting, given him an out. But she hadn't. And it had devolved into an impromptu "Let's talk about how Your Disability Impacts Your Life" session.

_You're not his therapist. You're not his girlfriend. You're barely his friend. If EVEN. _

But they'd made it work, right? It had been fine, they'd managed it, and he'd even offered to go again. Had he been fine? There had been a moment, a few moments where he could see him struggling, see him fighting with himself. It wasn't like he'd had much time, reason, occasion, or opportunity to confront his disability. How much had he processed? How much could anyone speak to the fact that he'd lost the same arm _twice? _That he'd lost the same arm twice in two very traumatic circumstances.

_The second time might not have happened if you'd just told Steve._

And how exactly would that conversation have gone? _Oh, by the way, your best friend, the man we've devoted hundreds, if not thousands of hours searching for, that guy, he killed Tony Stark's parents._

Maggie shook her head. Didn't matter. She couldn't change it now, and she certainly couldn't think like that.

She had to focus on the present, on the now, because she couldn't think about what had happened or what might happen without completely losing her head. Aside from that, she had other things to worry about. It was the King's birthday, and while it wasn't the entire nation showing up in Omondi's village, it would be crowded, and the King and his family were expected to make an appearance. Meaning she, and very likely Barnes, had to be on their best behavior. Not that they wouldn't be, of course, it was just an added stressor to an already stressful situation.

Maggie sighed as she picked up her comb and started working through her hair.

Since when had social interaction been considered a stressor for her? She'd always been a bit of a social butterfly and genuinely enjoyed being around people.

_Since Juarez, when crowds meant danger, and people meant problems. Since you speak tourist level Wakandan. Since your only normal point of human contact is a man who spent the last 70 years being repeatedly frozen, brainwashed, and sent out periodically to murder and maim. _

And now she'd probably ruined that too. She'd made him uncomfortable, more than normal, more than appropriate for their level of interpersonal connection.

She shook her head, twisting her hair into the green, blue, and black fabric that matched the fabric of the jumpsuit Teela had suggested she wear for the occasion. The color scheme was from the river tribe, and the way that Maggie understood it, the bolt of fabric had been a gift from the river tribe given to Teela, who had, in turn, commissioned a few pieces of clothing for every woman in the village. Teela had given it to her with a little note attached, _Merry Christmas. _Christmas wasn't for a few more days, and of course, the Wakandans had their own celebrations that didn't involve western, Christian traditions. However, the fact that Teela had been thoughtful enough to make mention of it, was incredibly touching, and Maggie knew that she had to wear the beautiful garment at least once before returning to her usual pants, button-down, and boots.

Securing her hair, she slipped on the large copper earring, before quickly surveying her reflection in the mirror. She looked exhausted, but the dark circles around her eyes had eased since she'd arrived in Wakanda. Certainly, her stress and anxiety levels had gone down, which was good. Still, tonight and all of its festivities were looking to be yet another stressful situation, thanks in no small part to her misstep earlier in the day.

"Hey, cowgirl! You ready!" Jelani's voice called. "You coming?"

"Be right there!" She called back. Casting one last look in the mirror, and slipping on her kimoyo bracelet, she walked out where Tee, Jelani, Sisay, and a few others from the village were waiting, all on horseback. Fortunately, Stella was already saddled, and Maggie quickly mounted. Wordlessly, the group started toward Omondi's village at a gentle trot.

It was a quick journey on horseback, and Maggie focused on what she was doing, rather than what the afternoon had entailed. She tried not to think about the fact that she'd upset Barnes. She tried not to think about the fact that it was the first time she'd danced like that since Riley had passed away. Tried not to think about Stardust, or about how long it had been since he'd passed away, or think about the fact that when she'd danced with Barnes, she'd felt like she was flying. She tried not to think about the fact that she desperately wanted to dance again and dance properly with the man who had ruined her life, and who despite everything, was quickly becoming one of her friends. Yet the thoughts plagued her, try as she might, even as she knew in her heart of hearts that it didn't matter what she wanted. If she'd misstepped, if she'd pushed him too hard, and too far, there wouldn't be another time. That if she'd ruined this, it was all on her.

By the time they arrived, the sun was starting to get low, giving the landscape a purplish hue. Dismounting, they stabled their horses, and Teela took her by the hand, leading her through the party to meet a number of the local women.

For her part, Maggie struggled to keep up, but smiled and nodded, trying to remember names and modes of address. When they'd finally made it through the gauntlet, Teela handed her a drink, patting her amiably on the back. "You did well. Are you okay?"

"Of course." Maggie smiled, taking a sip from the drink Teela had given her. It was a coconut and mango combination, with the faintest bit of alcohol. What exactly was in it, Maggie didn't know but felt it was probably better not to task.

"Good." She paused. "You have been a good and considerate guest in our village. But you need not consider yourself a guest, Magdalene."

"Thank you. You have been a kind and gracious host. I am honored." Maggie said.

"You should not feel so obligated to us." Teela continued.

"Obligated?" Maggie echoed.

"Yes. You feel you must socialize, must come to all of these events, must do everything you are invited to. You are allowed to say no. You are not obligated to us." Teela explained.

"Oh." She glanced down into her drink. Was it that obvious she was miserable at socializing at the moment? Was she being rude? Surely, Teela, or Jelani, or someone would've said something by now. "I do not want to appear ungracious, disrespectful, or disinterested in your country and it's customs, practices, and traditions. Particularly since you have allowed me to live among you, rather than cloistered off in the city."

"There is very little you could do to insult us. That you have put so much thought into not insulting us is telling of your character, but you should not worry so, you _both_ shouldn't worry." Teela replied, her gaze moving past Maggie to a commotion that was taking place behind her.

"Both?" Maggie stammered, turning to follow Teela's line of sight. "Oh."

The source of the noise was none other than James Barnes. A group of four kids had attached themselves to his arm, and he was swinging them as they giggled and laughed in sheer delight. Maggie couldn't help but smile at the sight, as he laughed and smiled along with them, seemingly happy to facilitate them and whatever game it was he'd become a part of. It seemed a sort of universal truth was unfolding before her eyes, a group of children around a much larger, stronger adult, will always want to use them as a climbing frame.

Perhaps what was more striking was that he was laughing and smiling amicably and that to her amazement, she realized that she had never seen him do so before. Not like this, not to this degree. Sure, she'd managed, at least once or twice, to coax out a laugh or a smile while they were watching a movie, or talking during lunch, but this was something else. Was this what he had been like with his sisters? She could imagine, thinking about the photographs, a young Becca doing something similar to what she saw now. Bucky's face all soft and warm lines, something unspeakably kind in his eyes and mouth. Maggie realized as she watched that somehow this felt special. As though she was glimpsing something rare, something from the "before," untouched and untarnished by time, something incorruptible to outside influences.

He looked up, meeting her gaze, and Maggie looked away and down, trying to find anywhere else to look. Next to her, Teela cleated her throat, and Maggie starred down in her drink, trying to will away the blush that was rising on her face. She'd been caught staring, and even Teela had noticed.

"Is he looking at us?" Maggie muttered under her breath into her glass.

"Yes. He's coming this way."

Maggie sucked in more drink than she'd meant to, partially choking. Coughing, she looked back up to find that he was disentangling himself from the kids and was making his approach.

"Heyi, White Wolf, It is good to see you!' Teela called as he walked toward them.

"Madame Teela."

"Please, please, just Tee is fine." She said, "Now if you both would excuse me, I need to see what my husband and child have gotten up to." Patting Maggie on the back, she disappeared into the throngs of people.

Hesitantly, Maggie looked up and met Barnes's curious gaze. "Hi." She offered breathlessly.

"Hi." He looked her up and down uncertainly.

Maggie opened her mouth to speak but was cut off by a group of kids who came rushing past, laughing and joking, calling, "White Wolf!" As they passed.

"You're popular," Maggie commented.

"Strange one-armed white guy, remember?" He said dryly.

"Law of nature Barnes, small children are constantly in search of something to climb onto or hang off of. You're just a convenient target."

"Because I'm the strange one-armed white guy."

Maggie sighed, nodding, "Point taken."

There was a long pause as they both surveyed one another. Barnes had changed from his usual trousers, and button-down with the sleeve ripped off, and instead wore a more traditional looking set of Wakandan pants and robe, with matching scarf. Rather than his usual red and blue color scheme, he was in darker browns and blues, a thick leather belt cinching up the fabric, the scarf, as usual, hiding his pronounced lack of an arm. Someone, or perhaps he'd managed it with one hand, had put his hair up into a half up half down bun, and he'd even trimmed and groomed his beard.

They made eye contact, and Maggie smiled. "You look nice."

"Thanks, so do you."

"Thanks."

There was yet again another pause, as they tried to find what to say next.

"I wasn't sure you'd come," Barnes admitted hesitantly after a moment. "After this afternoon, I mean."

Maggie glanced up at him. "If anyone has a right to be avoiding anyone after this afternoon, it would be you."

He frowned, furrowing his brow.

"I want to apologize, Barnes, I realized after you left that I had been a little too forceful, and tremendously inconsiderate."

Barnes nodded thoughtfully, taking a moment to chose his words before he spoke. "You can't make me do anything I don't _want_ to do, Ramirez."

_But it was awkward. It was uncomfortable. It did push you out of your comfort zone in a way I had no right to ask, demand, or force. _She wanted to say it, but she didn't. _I'm not making fun of or making light of you or your disability. _But this wasn't the right time, place, or moment for that. Not right now, in front of the Wakandans, when this was supposed to be a celebration, and they could be interrupted at any moment.

"Well, I wouldn't want force to come into the equation in any context. I'll do my best to be more mindful in the future." She managed, as light-heartedly as she could manage.

He nodded again. "I'm glad you came." He continued after a moment.

"I'm glad you came too. These things are always easier to bear when you're not alone."

"Yeah." He agreed softly.

_You wanna get out of here?_ She almost asked. It felt like the most natural thing in the world to ask. After all, it was clear they both didn't want to be there. They could slip away and watch a movie at his place. They were still trying to pin down when they were going to watch Gone With The Wind. Why not tonight? "So when did you want to watch our next film?" She inquired slowly.

"Gone with the Wind? You're really serious about watching all of those old movies with me?"

"Well. Yeah. I mean, if you'll have me." She stammered.

"Why?" He asked.

_Oh boy._ She hadn't expected him to ask. Why would he? Maggie took a deep breath, trying to find a way to not make this about her dead husband. "I've never seen a lot of these," She began slowly.

"I meant, why do you want to watch them with me?"

"Oh." She'd asked herself the same question it felt like a thousand times over, and it always came down to, _I'm lonely, what the hell else am I going to do? _But it didn't feel like that, not when they were actually sitting there watching the films. They'd only watched Casablanca and Godfather together (and part of Raging Bull, if you counted that before she'd rage quit over the pedophilia), but she'd been able to ask him questions during Casablanca. Then after watching The Godfather, he'd asked her about the differences between the book and the movie. They'd been able to _relax_ around one another without the pressure of a performance. But she couldn't say that, not without it being weird, or weirder than their entire relationship already was.

"Well." She continued. "Believe it or not, Barnes, but I think I'm starting to enjoy your company."

He snorted, shaking his head, before he looked her over, his expression changing. "You're serious."

_I know, I'm as surprised as you are. Maggie_ would've said, but that felt mean spirited. Instead, she nodded with a faint smile, "So far as I can tell." She said, trying to convey as much as possible that she was being sincere. And of course, she _was _being sincere, but she couldn't help but note Barnes's skepticism.

"Oh," Barnes replied slowly.

"I wouldn't spend time with you if I thought you were a total asshole."

"Just a partial one?" He raised an eyebrow.

"Only when you want to be."

He chuckled, nodding. Opening his mouth to say something, he was cut off by a loud commotion, and they both turned to see none other than King T'Challa, Nakia, Princess Shuri, and the Queen Mother entering the village, flanked by some of the Doras, including the General, Okoye.

Maggie watched as they moved through the crowds of people, wishing the King a happy birthday. "Barnes, what's the Wakandan convention on gift-giving for the King's Birthday?" She managed under her breath.

"You know, I hadn't really thought about that until you just asked."

"I mean, what would we even begin to give a King?"

"Beats me." He shrugged.

"Well, it's not too late to sneak—"

"Barnes, Magdalene, I'm honored you came." The King said as he approached.

Barnes shot her a look that she couldn't quite decipher, "The honor is ours." He said before she could manage to find her words.

"Happy Birthday, your highness." Maggie managed. "I'm afraid we didn't think to bring anything in honor of your name day."

At this, the King shook his head. "No, no. While gift-giving is customary during a name day celebration, as King, I have the special privilege of bestowing gifts."

"That really isn't necessary," they blurted out at once.

The slightest hint of a smile, upturned at the corner of his mouth, and he nodded, regally. "That may be so, but never the less, it is my right." He said, removing two Kimoyo beads from his pocket. "It is my understanding that two of your holidays are forthcoming, and that likewise, it is customary to receive messages of goodwill from friends and family, and return messages in kind." He extended the first one to Barnes. It was slowly flashing a blue color rather than it's usual white, and he took is uncertainly, holding it in his hand, inspecting it carefully. The King then turned to her, giving her the second one, which flashed a purple color. "Messages for you, from Captain Rogers, and Samuel Wilson. You may record your own message and leave your beads with Omondi and Jelani. They will get them to the appropriate people who will deliver your messages."

"Thank you, your highness." Maggie stammered, placing the bead on her bracelet.

"Thank you." Barnes chorused.

"I will let you enjoy your evening. Thank you again for coming." He nodded before returning to the main party.

Maggie could feel Barnes exhale a long breath beside her. "You were saying." He commented dryly after a beat of silence.

She cracked a smile, rolling her eyes. "I spoke too soon, or not soon enough. Although I don't think I can decide which is worse."

"Well. Regardless, we still got V-mail. That's something."

Maggie nodded, "That _is _something." She paused, chewing on the corner of her mouth. "I'm glad they were able to get a message through, I've been wondering how they're doing."

"Yeah. Me too." He agreed.

They faded off into silence, watching the activities of the party as they unfolded. Then the Princess Shuri called her name. "Magdalene! Magdalene, come here. I must teach you to dance!"

All eyes of the party, and it felt the whole of Wakanda, turned to her, and Maggie could feel as the blush rose on her cheeks. "If you'd excuse me." She managed before throwing back the rest of her drink.

"Of course." Barnes nodded, a curious and playful expression on his face, his hands still balled around the Kimoyo bracelet.

"Wish me luck," Maggie murmured, before walking through the crowd and toward where the Princess was beckoning her.

* * *

Bucky watched her walk away and into the crowd, where a group of women had started to gather around where the Princess would be teaching Ramirez the steps to the dance.

Although he couldn't make out what was being said, Bucky could see that Ramirez was listening intently, her face bent in extreme focus and concentration.

It was a traditional Wakandan dance for women. What it's significance was Bucky. Couldn't entirely figure out, but as the music started, all of the women, including The Princess, Queen Mother, and Nakia, lined up and started to dance and sing along. Ramirez did her best to keep[ up, laughing and smiling as she fumbled a step, her face bright in the light of the massive bonfire that had been built up in the center of the village. The light danced on her face, illuminating her eyes, and smile.

Was that how she'd looked while they were dancing. He couldn't recall, and they'd been close, closer than Bucky was to her now. Only then, he'd been focused on his own steps, worried, practically frantic, afraid to make a misstep, afraid to make an ass out himself, or incur Ramirez's laughter, her scorn.

Only she'd been the one to apologize. He wasn't sure how to feel about that. Had his discomfort been that obvious? Had he made her feel guilty? She hadn't done anything wrong, not really. It had all been in his head rather than something she'd personally done or said. As he'd told her, there wasn't anything that she could do to force him into anything he didn't want to do—all that pressure, all that expectation, that had been internal.

She'd said she didn't want force to enter the equation, and she'd apologized. Should he apologize for his behavior? He didn't know. Steve might know, Wilson would _certainly _know how to respond to Ramirez.

_Jeezus, asking Steve for advice on how to talk to a woman._ It was almost more than he could bear.

Bucky shook his head, glancing down at the Kimoyo bead he was rolling between his fingers. A message from Steve. It would be good to hear his voice again, hear what they were up to, know if they were safe. He'd, of course, send a message back to Steve. That, however, was more troubling.

What was he going to say? What could he say? He'd even forgotten that it was nearly Hanukkah. Time, it seemed, moved differently in Wakanda, moving fast and yet not at all. He would report, of course, that he was fine. That's always how V-mail started. It didn't matter if it was coming or going; you always started with reassurance. You were fine, the family was fine, the neighbors, postman, milkman, however, they were all in good health. After that, there'd be the local gossip, who'd gotten married, who was carrying on with the girl down the street, before talking about the weather or something to fill the space. Then you'd wish them well before you signed off.

They didn't necessarily all go like that, but that was the general format. Becca had been a master at writing interesting letters. Of course, the letters had all been in her handwriting, but Bucky could always tell which parts were hers and which parts she'd directly copied from their folks.

Fortunately, Becca had never had to find ways to couch bad news with a positive spin. Other guys in the 107th hadn't been so lucky. Deaths or severe illness in the family were the most common. One had received a Dear John, that had been difficult to watch.

So what was Bucky going to say? What was there to say? What was he willing to say when it would likely be listened to by the Wakandans and then overhead by Steve's team. What could he say that would approximate the truth without worrying Steve, but also not sound totally made up.

He paused at the sound of laughter and focused back on what was happening. Ramirez was laughing and clutching her side, even as she continued to dance, badly, by comparison to the others dancing around. Still, she was grinning and laughing and apparently enjoying herself.

What would she say to Wilson? Would she report that she'd happy and well adjusted? Would she tell him about their movie nights, or that they'd danced under the trees and she'd tripped and dragged him to the ground? Would she tell Wilson that she was lonely and unhappy? That she was bored and didn't have any friends? Bucky didn't know, and he wasn't sure he wanted to know how he figured into her world.

"Heyi, White boy!" The Princess Shuri called, and he turned to see her waving him over. "Come and let me teach you how to dance."

Ramirez stood at his side, looking mortified. Catching his eye, she mouthed, 'Sorry!'

Bucky hesitated, momentarily frozen in indecision. _This should be fun, let it be fun._ He could hear her say.

Letting the Kimoyo bead slide onto the bracelet, he nodded, walking through the parting crowd to where they were standing.

"Well, Ramirez, you did say you'd show me some of your moves." He commented dryly as he joined them.

"She did?" The Princess raised an eyebrow.

"She did," Bucky confirmed, glancing between the Princess and Ramirez, who was blushing, her ears tinged with pink. "So. Who's going to show me how it's done?"

He'd figure out what message to record for Steve later. He'd figure out how to cope with everything he'd been dealing with later, but for right now, he was going to let tonight, let right now be fun.

* * *

So. The Title of the chapter is actually in reference to a wonderful Fred Astaire song (as featured in the playlist/recommended listening). It is from the film Swing Time starring Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. Unfortunately, the movie has a horrible blackface number, but (aside from the horrible racism) is a quaint little film with some wonderful dance numbers.

That aside! What did we think? I HAVE SO MANY FEELINGS and only more feelings to come! I hope you all enjoyed it! I can't wait to hear what you think, and thank you so much for your patience and understanding. Life threw me some very interesting curve balls over the past few weeks, so writing has been a little low on the priority list.

Happy Reading!


	40. Something There

Author's Note: Marvel owns what it owns, and I own what I own, let's keep it that way, shall we? Don't Sue me!

TW: BIG OLE WARNING For self-harm and self-harm ideation.

Recommended Listening: I'll Be Home for Christmas by Bing Crosby; Something There by Page O'Hara and Robby Benson; Waterfalls by TLC; Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas by Judy garland

* * *

Chapter 40: Something There

_There'll be snow and mistletoe and presents under the tree._

Maggie could hear Sam's voice, small and wavering as he sang into the recording. Whether he was singing softly because he didn't want to give away their position, or he didn't want the others to hear him, Maggie didn't know, because all she could hear was him, and she'd been doing her best to get it out of her head for the better part of a week now. It had been two days since Christmas, and just about a week since the King had given her the Kimoyo bead with Sam's recording on it.

It, of course, had been a relief to hear Sam's voice. It had felt a little bit like old times, listening to his voice in the cool and dark of her room after a long day's work. Perhaps a little too much like old times.

Maggie hadn't sent a recording back. She had hoped to be able to get it together long enough to record something for Sam. She'd tried, to her credit, she'd tried several times, but had always gotten weepy halfway through. That was something she'd sworn back in the day when Sam and Riley were on their tour of duty that she would never do. They had to stay focused on doing their jobs and coming home safely. She wouldn't make that more difficult by making them worry about her because she was having a hard time keeping it together.

She felt that way then, and she felt that way now. _I wonder if Barnes has sent Steve anything. _

She hadn't thought to ask when they'd sat down to watch the first part of Gone With the Wind. They hadn't really had much to say before, during, or after the film. They'd both been exhausted and were both trying to find their way back to somewhat more normal ground after what had happened last week. Barnes hadn't brought it up, but there was that level of uncertainty that was present in their interactions, a level of caution. She was simply trying to give Barnes his space to work through what he needed to work through, and doing her best not to overstep her boundaries.

Maggie wanted to talk to Sam, and with the dancing, and the audio recording, and with everything that was happening, she _really_ wanted to talk with Riley. He would've had something funny and witty and honest to say about all of this. He would've kissed her forehead and made her laugh, and then they would've talked through the options, the choices, the path forward. This time of year the three of them would be snuggled up on the couch, drinking eggnog, with a roaring fire in the fireplace, talking, laughing, listening to Bing Crosby, Nat King Cole, The Roches, and any number of other adaptation of Christmas music they'd managed to find for her record player. She missed it, she missed them, and it was all because Sam had decided to sing that song because he'd reminded her of what they had, and what they were now missing. Over the past few years, it had been something that she'd done her best to avoid, ignore, or otherwise keep from thinking about, and now she had to face it again. She missed her home, and she missed the people who'd made it her home.

Maggie blinked, leaning heavily against the workbench. Wiping her face with the back of her sleeve, she looked around. The heat was rising from the ground in waves, making it difficult to breathe, her vision blurring and making her headache.

_I'm dehydrated._

She knew the signs. She stooped down to her water skin and took a long draw letting the water run down her chin and soak into her shirt. She then poured a generous amount over her head, exhaling with a satisfied sigh.

"Go home, Cowgirl."

She looked up to see Jelani standing in the shade a short distance away. "Pardon?" Maggie asked breathlessly.

"Go home. It's too hot to do anything. All this can wait until tomorrow." He said, adjusting his grip on his staff.

"Honestly. I'm from Texas. This heat really isn't all that bad." She paused as she felt dizzy, the world around her spinning slightly.

Jelani gave her a _look_ but mercifully said nothing.

"What time is feed delivery today? I'll go home afterward." She reasoned.

"That's what I wanted to tell you. The White Wolf isn't coming. Omondi gave him the day off on account of the heat. Omondi will be by later for dinner and will deliver the feed once the heat breaks. You have no reason to stay out in it as well. Go somewhere cool and in the shade, perhaps take the White Wolf with you to the falls Sisay and I were telling you about.."

"Oh," Maggie replied, trying to ignore the audible disappointment that practically dripped from the exclamation. She hadn't heard anything. Why hadn't he sent her a message? Maybe this was his way of telling her that he didn't want to talk with her or deal with her today.

_You're being stupid._ It was the kindness, gentlest thing that she could manage. _You've ruined everything, you moron_, was the next nicest thing, followed by, _you fucking idiot, you always do this, you always mess everything up, this is what you do, this is why you're always the only one left standing._

Jelani cleared his throat, and Maggie raised her eyes to match his gaze. "Go home. Get some rest; try to stay out of this heat. It does things to your head if you're not careful."

She nodded. "Thank you. I'll be here tomorrow earlier to try to beat the heat of the afternoon."

At this, Jelani laughed, "I assure you cowgirl, the whole of Wakanda will not crumble if you decide to take a few days for yourself. You've worked non-stop since you've been here and been an avid and keen learner."

Maggie had to swallow back the palpable anxiety that swelled in her chest at the very thought.

"I'll see you tomorrow, all the earlier, cowgirl," Jelani said simply, before walking away.

She nodded, watching as he went.

Jelani was right. Maggie knew he was right. She needed a break. She had worked non-stop since she'd arrived. It would only be right for her to take some time off to take care of herself. She wouldn't, of course. She'd had two and a half years to take time to get her head on straight, and she hadn't. What would make her time in Wakanda any different?

As she cleaned up her work station, her mind wandered back to the message Sam had left for her. She needed to respond, needed to find a way to make it through what she wanted to say.

_This isn't about you and about how you're feeling. This is about making sure that Sam knows that you're safe. Whether your happy, healthy, and well adjusted is subjective anyway._

Her palms itched, the pressure was there, in the back of her mind, building, searching for any way out, for any way to relieve that constant and ever-present urge. It wouldn't take much for her to take back control, to manage the raging pain and anger and hurt that she'd damned up behind fragile walls. Just a little bit a siphon, a little bit of a controlled release of pressure, to relieve what was building up just behind her eyes and lurking in the dark corners of her mind.

Maggie arrived back at her single dwelling, and immediately went for the container of ice in the small food storage unit, and pressed an ice cube against her right forearm with her left hand, focusing on the chilling sensation that went up her arm and through her spine. With her free hand, she clicked on the Kimoyo bead, and Sam's voice filled the small room.

'_Hey Mags,' _Sam began, he sounded tired, but like he was trying to put on a happy face for her. _'It's been a while. Hope you're doing well. Steve, and Wanda, and Nat say hello. We all hope you've settled into life there. The War Dogs who made contact with us said that you're working for a horse breeder. That's good. I'm glad you're working with horses again. I know you were always happiest when you got to be around animals. Even when things were bad, and hard, having your horses, having your routine seemed to help make it not so bad.'_

Sam paused, and Maggie could hear him thinking about what he was going to say next.

_'I hope you're not alone, though. That you've found people to spend time with, hell, even if it's Barnes, it would be better than you being alone. It's not good for you to be alone.' _He faltered, breaking off again. _'I keep thinking about what happened, over the summer, when you went off the grid, when you were alone, in Juarez. Doing what I'm doing now, I can't imagine doing it alone. I have my team, and they have my back. But thinking about you, thinking about how you did all of that alone, how you've been alone...since...well...for a long time now. I don't want you to be alone, and I'm sorry that I couldn't find you sooner.' _There was another pause. _'I wish I could be there with you to celebrate Christmas. I know that was always our thing when we were together. That was always Riley's favorite holiday, and we'd always make a huge thing of it. We haven't done that since he's been gone and not going to lie. I've missed it, I think about it, I still think about it, even all these years later.' _Sam sighed, _'Damn, sorry. I didn't mean to take my message that direction. This was supposed to be a fun message. A letter home.' _Maggie could practically hear him shake his head before he took a deep breath. _'I'll be home for Christmas, You can plan on me, Please have snow and mistletoe, And presents on the tree.' _He sang.

Tears started streaming down her face, and she let the ice cube fall from her grasp as she reached up to wipe them away.

'_I'll be home for Christmas, If only in my dreams.' _It was only then that Sam's voice cracked. He paused, clearing his throat before he continued. _'I love you, Mags, I'm thinking about you, I hope you're doing well, and I hope to hear from you soon. Merry Christmas.' _

The recording ended, and Maggie wiped her face before her left hand went instinctively to the chain around her neck.

Maggie froze. It was gone, it wasn't there.

She jumped to her feet, her heart pounding in her ears, her eyes scanning the floor of her small dwelling.

It was gone. The chain, the rings, all of it gone. She frantically rifled through her blankets and bedroll, and the small chest she used to store all of the clothes she'd been given. Through the cloth sack, she used to store her dirty clothes, through her make-shift ofrenda, where she'd set up her grandmother's statue and her grandfather's rosary.

_Fuck, Fuck, Fuck. _She swore silently as she came up empty. Panic turned to anger, which turned into despair, and Maggie sunk down on the floor, pulling her knees to her chest. Squeezing her eyes and taking deep breaths, she tried to ground herself and slow her panicking mind.

_Think. Think slowly, rationally calmly. _The logical, rational, calm side of her brain cooed. While the other, louder, more frantic side of her simply screamed, _Find it! Find it! Find it!_

In response, her brain completely shut down, and she sat numbly for a good five minutes, allowing panic and heart wash over. She'd lost it. She'd lost one of her last tangible connections to Riley. How could she have been so stupid?

Becca had said one day it wouldn't hurt so much and that she'd be able to take off the bands and not feel naked. But it wasn't now. It wasn't like this. Putting Riley aside was supposed to be a choice, was supposed to be part of the process; it wasn't supposed to be ripped away from her like everything else.

Maggie took a couple of deep breaths before opening her eyes again and glancing around the small, now incredibly messy, hut. _It's not lost, just misplaced—one thing at a time._

Rising on shaking legs, she took a mental stock. _I'm dehydrated, I'm hot, I'm dirty, and I'm panicked. Which one of these things can I fix first?_

Chugging a half-gallon of water, Maggie peeled off her dirty work clothes, washing her arms, neck, and chest with a wet towel before pulling on a gauzy white dress. It was floor-length, lightweight, and fitted through the chest and waist with a flowing skirt and sleeves that buttoned at the wrists and neck. She'd bought it on one of her trips to the market, and it flowed freely around her legs, giving her full range of motion, as well as a nice bit of air circulation. She looked like a short, fat, Mexican Florence Welch, but it would work to keep her cool.

She turned to her hair, unwrapping it from its usual braid, she combed it, and collecting her favorite head wrap, started to twist the long lengths of fabric and hair together. It was as headscarf she'd picked out when she'd bought the dress, and the blue, red, and gold pattern of the fabric was woven with vibranium, which in combination with a bunch of highly scientific things Maggie didn't understand, worked to keep her internal temperature regulated. Then grabbing the matching scarf, knotted to of its corners, and pulled it over her head and across her body.

By the time she was finished, Maggie had a plan. She didn't need to sit in her hut and mope. She'd retrace her steps and find Riley's wedding band, first to the shop, then around the shop and barn, before she walked toward Omondi's village, and then Barnes's hut.

After that, who knew. She might even go to the falls, and she might even take Barnes with her. But first, one thing at a time.

* * *

It was hot. Really hot. Oppressively hot, and Bucky was doing his best not to move in a vain attempt to keep cool. He couldn't remember a time he'd ever been this hot. He'd been kept in Siberia. He'd fought in the European front during the war. He was from Brooklyn. It got hot, but never lung crushing, skin melting hot like this.

Omondi had given him the day off due to the heat, which meant that he wasn't making his usual rounds for feed delivery. Instead, he was lying flat on his back, in his hut, while he silently debated himself about if he should reach out to Ramirez and let her know that he wasn't going to be by today.

_Would she really care? _He couldn't help but wonder.

Bucky exhaled, blowing some hair out of his face as he stared up at the thatch ceiling listening to people as they walked by, laughing and talking with one another, completely unaware that he was listening.

He'd done his best to occupy his time, read, write, maybe even watch a movie or something, but it was too hot. So instead, he was stuck in his head, and without anywhere to go, his thoughts were only compounding, building upon one another.

At the moment, he was trying not to think about if he should call Ramirez and let her know that he wasn't going to be by for their usual Tuesday lunch. Mostly, he was thinking about Steve's audio message. Hanukkah had started a few days ago, and much like the two years he'd been on the run, Bucky didn't feel like celebrating. Wasn't sure if he _should _celebrate. After all, who was there to celebrate with? Steve had sounded in good spirits, though. Wanda Maximoff was with them now, and she was going to celebrate the holiday with Steve. Natasha was, of course, Jewish, but whether or not Steve knew that, Bucky didn't know. Regardless, Steve had Sam and had his team around him to celebrate. That was good. It was good that Steve had people. Steve needed people.

Bucky was still in search of normalcy, and thus far, it felt like trying to bring other people into the mix just hadn't had good results.

Steve had asked Bucky how Ramirez was getting along. If they'd seen anything of one another, _She's a good person Buck, and I think you two would get along._ He'd mentioned in passing between two of his comments.

_If only Steve knew. _

Bucky would tell Steve, of course, that he and Ramirez were having their weekly lunches and watching films together. He'd tell Steve that they were perfectly amiable to one another. Bucky wouldn't, however, tell him he was still thinking about what had happened almost a week ago. He felt embarrassed, ashamed almost. Why? He wasn't entirely sure, but he knew that he felt that, strongly, acutely almost. Of course, he and Ramirez had spent time together since then, she'd come over to watch the first part of Gone With the Wind, they'd talked and had a decent time, but it felt like she was keeping her distance. He felt delicate, and he hated that he felt that way.

He paused, sitting up on his elbow, looked around, and paused. Something had caught his eye, something that didn't belong there. Slowly, he rose, his eyes scanning the floor as he searched, and then, crouching down, scooped it up in his hands.

"Oh, fuck." He breathed as he examined the single gold band. It was a man's ring, a wedding ring. He'd seen it before, on a chain, around Ramirez's neck. He scanned the floor for a moment, before locating the chain and the other, much smaller wedding band.

How long had that been on his floor? Since Ramirez had come over for Gone with the Wind? Had she not noticed? How had he not noticed?

_I have to get these back to her._

Bucky charged from his hut, and blinking out into the sunshine, heading practically blind for the village. He'd been walking a good ten minutes when he stopped, a single thought piercing through his racing mind. _You could've just called her, you moron._ He silently scolded himself.

He looked around, blinking as the heat rose off the ground in warbling waves, all of a sudden feeling light-headed. _You really should've called her. _Bucky exhaled sharply, trying to stop everything from spinning.

"Barnes?" He looked up to see a figure approaching.

He squinted, trying to make out who it was. "Ramirez?"

"Yeah, it's me," Ramirez answered, stopping several feet away. "What are you doing out here?" She asked, glancing him up and down.

Wordlessly, he extended his hand to her and opened his enclosed fist, revealing the broken chain and two wedding bands. She gasped, covering her mouth with her hands as she crossed the distance between them, her eyes wide and glassy, ready to cry. "Where did you find them?" She asked, tears in her voice.

"They were on the floor. They must've dropped while we were cleaning up after watching the first half of Gone With the Wind. I didn't see them until just now." He explained, watching as she slowly reached out and collected them from his open palm, taking them delicately in both hands.

"Thank you, Barnes, Oh my god, thank you so much." Ramirez breathed as she stowed them away in her bags. "I can't thank you enough." She looked up at him. "You could've called, though."

"Yeah." He nodded, "I realized that after I started walking over to your place."

Ramirez glanced him up and down before speaking again. "Jelani told me Omondi gave you the day off."

"Yeah, he did."

"Jelani also told me that I should take you with me to the swimming hold Sisay told me about."

"He did?"

Ramirez nodded. "You can join me if you'd like. You're likely less adapted to this climate than I am, and cooling off sounds like a good idea all around."

"It _is_ hot," Bucky agreed. Every inch of him was soaked with sweat. He was nearly sure that the nub of the winter soldier prosthesis was about ten degrees hotter than the air around them and sweating as well. He looked Ramirez over. She looked the perfect picture of ease, watching him with her steady, familiar gaze. She didn't even look like she was breaking a sweat. "I wouldn't want to intrude." Bucky paused a moment, feeling light-headed. It was hotter than he'd realized, and he blinked, watching the dark spots dance in front of his eyes.

"You all right?" There was concern tinged her voice; her eyes surveying him carefully.

"Yeah. Fine. It's just a little warmer than I thought."

"Here." She said, rummaging through her bag, she removed a massive water skin and extended it to him.

"I'm fine, really. It's not too far back to the village." He protested.

"Please drink some water, Barnes. You're only out here because of me. I don't want to be responsible for explaining why you passed out and hit your head on a rock."

He relented, nodding, and took the water skin from her. Whether it was the heat, his mood, or just the fact that Ramirez looked far too serious, a small, wry smile twisted in the corner of his mouth, and he lifted the water skin toward her, "Here's looking at you kid." He said before taking a long draw

At that, Ramirez chuckled, shaking her head. "And to think I thought you'd forgotten about that."

"Is it as cheesy as you thought?" He inquired, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, before extending the water skin back to her.

"Keep it for now, and yes, that was cheesier than I could've possibly imagined." She laughed.

"Well, I'll have to find more opportunities to work it into conversation."

"You're a menace, Barnes." She rolled her eyes. "But that whole issue aside, you wouldn't be intruding if you came with me to the falls. I'd _like_ you to come with me."

_Really?_ He wanted to ask. She wanted to spend time with him? He couldn't believe it. Sure, movies and lunches were one thing, but this was an excursion outside of the village, isolated, and alone. She was trusting him. He wasn't sure if it was earned, or warranted, but what was Bucky's alternative? Go back to the village, sit alone in his hut, drink water, and stare at the ceiling? It paled in comparison to the notion that he could spend the afternoon with a beautiful woman. "How far is it?" He asked.

"About a half-mile, if you're up for it. You look like you could use a cool down." She said.

"That's not too bad." He shrugged, trying to be as casual as possible. "And yeah. Getting somewhere cool, and with lots of water sounds good right about now."

"Good. I've marked a waypoint, to avoid any confusion or getting lost." She said proudly, adjusting the straps of her bag.

"Lead the way then, Ramirez."

"Can do Barnes. Keep drinking water." She said, opening up the map on the kimoyo bracelet, they started walking.

They walked in amicable silence, Bucky drinking from the water skin and watching as Ramirez navigated. It was strange to see her not in her work clothes. He'd seen it a few times now, but it was always jarring. She fit in a very specific mental slot, and that slot included pants, a plaid shirt, and boots, or some variation therein. Everything about her today was soft lines, from the flowing skirts to the way her hair was wrapped, to even her expression. Light and soft, and drawing his eye. Was it the heat, or had he honestly just never noticed how beautiful she was before?

Her warm brown skin was smooth and flawless. Her eyes dark and inquisitive, her jaw, while tensed was angular and defined, was softer and more rounded now. Her thick brows were knit together, her lips pursed as she surveyed the map. Stopping, she looked down at the map and then around, making eye contact with him.

"What?" She asked, almost bashfully as she caught his gaze.

"Avoid getting lost, huh?" He asked, raising an eyebrow and managing a small reserved smile as he took another draw from the water skin.

Ramirez rolled her eyes, shaking her head. "Not...as...such..." She hesitated.

"May I see?" Bucky said as he walked up beside her.

"Sure, be my guest," Ramirez replied, extending her right hand to him, and he looked the map over.

They were standing more or less where the waypoint had been set, but obviously not where they wanted to be. "I think you've gotten us lost, Ramirez." He chuckled.

"Apparently so." She sighed, rolling her eyes. "I swear my sense of direction isn't normally this shitty."

Bucky didn't say anything. His attention had been grabbed by something in the background, something nearly out of earshot. "We're close." He said, glancing over at her. "Trust me."

Ramirez nodded and followed behind him in silence. It didn't take long until they came to a clearing, and a waterfall rose up before them, feeding the crystal clear pool below. "Wow," Ramirez commented softly, soaking in their surroundings. "This is beautiful."

Bucky nodded in agreement. "Yeah."

"Thanks for fixing my directional miscalculation."

"You weren't far off." He shrugged, watching as she set down her bag and pulled off her cross-body scarf and boots.

"We might have been wandering a while." She replied as she gathered up her long skirts and tied them around her waist, exposing her calves and a good portion of her thigh. Her warm brown skin looked smooth and soft. Her calves were well defined and muscular. _You're starring, stop starring. You've seen a woman's legs before._ "Are you going into the water, boots and all, James Barnes?"

Her voice called, and he blinked, realizing he'd been staring. "What?" He stammered.

"I asked if you're going into the water, boots and all," Ramirez repeated, picking her way over to the water's edge.

"Oh." _You're going in, going in the water. _He realized, watching her wade into the crystal clear water. "I was thinking I was going to refill the water skin and try to continue to re-hydrate." He answered lamely. He knew how to swim. He just wasn't sure if he could manage it with one arm. He'd never tried. Aside from that, going into the water with or without clothes was likely to draw a comment of some kind from Ramirez. He'd rather not deal with that right now.

"That makes total sense." She answered, slowly picking her way through the pool, the water about knee-deep now. "Plus someone needs to fish me out if I slip and—" The words had hardly left her mouth before she slipped, falling into the water with a loud splash. She reappeared with a chorus of spluttering and swearing.

"You alright?" Bucky walked to the water's edge, watching her rise unsteadily to her feet, her legs shaking like a newborn goat.

"I'm fine. I'm fine. That one's on m-" She slipped again.

Bucky chuckled, kicking off his boots, started into the water after her. "You really don't have-" Ramirez started but was cut off as she slipped again. By the time he made it to her, she'd gotten back up and was trying to steady herself.

"Here." He extended his hand to her.

"Thanks." She said breathlessly, taking it in hers.

"No prob-"

Then, against all the odds, he lost his balance and slipped, pulling them both into the water. They both came up gasping and pushing the hair out of his face, he looked at her, both of them breathing heavily. Was she going to be angry?

"Oops?"

Then, something broke in him, like a damn, and he threw his head back, and he started to laugh. Ramirez stared a moment, stunned before his laughing became infections, and she joined in.

Bucky wasn't entirely sure why he was laughing, or for that matter, why Ramirez found it all that funny, but they laughed and laughed and laughed until their sides ached. Eventually, they hauled themselves to the shore and lay flat on the hot rocks starring at the clear blue sky. Chests heaving, they laughed weakly, trying to gasp enough air to say something.

How long had it been since he'd laughed like that? Had he, in fact, ever laughed this hard, this long, with someone? Yes. He'd been twelve, and Steve had said something, not all that funny that had made them laugh and laugh and laugh until his mother had come outside to see what the noise was all about. He glanced over at Ramirez, who had tears streaming down her face from laughing so hard, or was it water? Hard to tell. "You okay there, Barnes?" She managed after a moment.

"Yeah. you?"

"So far as I can tell." She shook her head, standing up, she starting ringing out her skirt, walking to where she'd set down her bag and scarf.

"You done swimming?" He asked.

"No." Ramirez shook her head, her fingers working on the soaking knot keeping the skirts up. "I want to let my dress dry, so I have something to wear on the way back." She answered as the knot came loose and the skirts fell in a wet sheet around her legs. Unbuttoning the cuffs and collar of the dress, she started pulling the soaked gauzy fabric away from her skin and...

"Oh..." Bucky stammered. "Do you want?... I can..." He turned away, averting his eyes.

"I'm wearing shorts and a sports bra, Barnes. I'm hardly indecent." Bucky could hear the smile in her voice. "But I appreciate your decency. You can turn around if you like." She said, and he turned to see her laying the dress out to dry on the grass.

Ramirez rose and turned to face him, and his eyes were drawn to the scars running up and down her thighs in straight, neat little white lines. Some of the scars were nearly faded completely. He frowned. He'd never seen scars like that. "You can ask if you'd like." He looked up and met her direct gaze. He'd been starring again. "I don't mind," She said gently.

"What happened?" His mind went directly to Hydra. They'd tortured her...but He didn't remember them doing anything like that. It wasn't their calling card. The scar on her arm and hand, that was Hydra. They crushed and mutilated limbs to get what they wanted out of their victims. No, the scars on her legs were something else.

"Friendly fire." She supplied.

"Huh?" He furrowed his brow, meeting her gaze.

"They're razor blade cuts," Ramirez explained gently. "I have a history of self-harm. I started in high school and finally got help midway through college. My last bad relapse was after Riley died. But it's something I've struggled with for as long as I can remember." Ramirez said as she walked past him back toward the water.

Bucky turned, watching her walk a little way into the water and sit down. She didn't look upset or even angry. Just thoughtful. "I'm sorry." He said after a moment.

"It doesn't bother me, Barnes. It used to, but nowadays, it's just part of the scenery." She shrugged.

He reached up to his left shoulder, his fingers running along where the scars had formed long ragged paths from the continued abuse. The skin retained the memory of what he'd done or rather what he'd tried to do to himself. He'd tried at every opportunity to dig that thing out of him, even if it meant doing it with his own hand. Hydra had restrained him, sedated him, and physically punished him for trying to dig that thing out, but he'd persisted, desperate, frantic to undo what they'd done to him. Even now, that metal shoulder plate was still in his body, and every now and again, he'd get the urge to itch to scratch and pick at it, to claw and get the rest of it out—the last bit of Hydra. Well...one of the last bits anyway. Was that self-harm? It had felt like self-preservation at the time, a way to control what was happening, a way to fight back, a way to remain grounded at least momentarily in who he was. Was that the she same urge she'd felt every time she'd put a razor blade to her skin? Afraid second to second what she was doing but unable to stop herself. Bucky shook his head. How did she do it? Be so open and honest? So cavalier about something that had caused her tremendous pain? How could she still be so gentle and kind when she had endured so much?

_Well, fair was fair. _Bucky thought. _She'd shown him hers. Now he'd show her his. _He paused. "Do you mind if I take off my shirt?"

"What you afraid you're going to blind me with your white skin, James Barnes?" She turned to face him, a broad smile across her face. She stopped, eyes surveying him a moment, her expression going serious. "Oh," Ramirez said slowly. "No. Your lack of limb isn't going to put me off. Do whatever is going to be most comfortable for you."

Bucky nodded and removing the scarf, he deposited it on the ground next to her dress, before slowly working the buttons of his shirt. Ramirez turned back the way she'd been facing to give him a semblance of privacy.

_She knows. She knows what you did to yourself. She knows what they did to you. _His mind screamed at him.

He peeled the damp shirt away from his clammy skin and set it out to dry as well.

_She's a former Veteran therapist. She's seen the files. Why are you so nervous about this? _The old Bucky would never have been nervous about this, being shirtless in the presence of another human being. Then again, the old Bucky wasn't scarred and mutilated and missing a limb. The old Bucky hadn't had mind and body ripped apart and stitched back together more times than he could remember. The Bucky from before, the _real _Bucky, was whole. He was not. He was vulnerable, exposed, with nothing to hide behind.

He glanced at the metal shoulder plate and the fabric cap covering what remained of the metal limb and exhaled slowly. _Might as well get this over with._ Bucky paused, walking up beside where she was sitting and looked down. Her self harm scars, white and bright against her otherwise dark smooth skin.

_Just a part of the scenery. _That's what she'd said.

How long had it taken her to get to that place? How long would it take him to become as comfortable in his own skin as she appeared to be in hers?

He sunk down beside her on her left side, and she turned her head to him, her eyes glancing him over for no more than half a second. "You really are very white. You know that?"

"So you keep reminding me."

Ramirez chuckled, but said nothing further, turning her attention back to the waterfall.

Was that what he wanted? No commentary about his missing limb, no wincing or look of pity, no unasked questions, no half asked, or nearly innocent questions. Perhaps, he realized, it was almost worse, not knowing, not getting a reaction out of her, not hearing what she thought of it, thought of him than knowing would be.

Bucky glanced over at her. She had both her arms behind her and was leaning against them. Her head was back, her eyes closed, just basking in the warm sun, the cool water on her legs and stomach. Ramirez looked radiant, her skin glowed in the sun, her dark hair was still neatly twisted on the top of her head with the scarf, and her expression soft and content.

Bucky found that he wanted to reach over and touch her just to make sure he wasn't imagining all of this. She couldn't be real. She couldn't actually be here with him in this beautiful place. It had to be a dream. There was no way this woman would ever have given him the time of day back in the world, back when he was a whole functioning human being with good looks and charm. So why on earth was she so content to spend her afternoon with the sad husk of what remained of James Barnes?

_But she is. _

That was true. If she was horrified or repulsed by him, wouldn't she have expressed it by now? She was no stranger to what he was, everything that he was. Would she have really sought out his presence if she thought he was revolting or repugnant?

_No. She wouldn't have._

Bucky exhaled slowly, trying to slow his racing pulse and release some of the tension that had built up.

"That's a good sound," Ramirez commented.

"Pardon?"

"You're relaxing. It's good." She said, opening her eyes, she blinked bleary eye-ed as her eyes adjusted to the bright light. She looked over at him. "Personally, I could use a full body massage and a frozen margarita, but this certainly does in a pinch."

"Yeah. It's nice to get out of the heat for a while." He agreed,

"Nice to get out of the village, away from life a little bit," She said, splashing herself with a bit of water.

Bucky nodded, again saying nothing. Small talk was not his forte.

"You know what, Barnes," She said, her eyes scanning the waterfall and rock face, "I'm going to jump off that ledge."

"You what?" He asked, taken aback.

"That ledge, up there," She pointed.

Bucky followed her line of sight to a ledge about fifty feet up. "Why?" He looked over at her.

"I dunno." She shrugged. "There was a big jumping rock at the lake where my parents used to take my brother and me over the summer. They never would let me jump off it. I guess living out childhood dreams."

Bucky glanced between her and the ledge. It wasn't a huge drop. There were no rocks or debris to avoid, it was safe enough, but as someone who'd spent considerable time jumping and falling from great heights over the last 70 years, he couldn't quite see the appeal. "Uh. Huh." He nodded skeptically.

"I'm not asking you to go with Barnes. Actually, you should stay down here in case I crack my head open on a rock," Ramirez said, wading toward the shore.

"And you're trusting the one-armed guy to fish you out?" Bucky asked skeptically.

"Well. As I have no other readily available alternative, I'll just have to trust you." She reached the shore, turned, and smiled. "I don't plan on cracking my head open if that makes you feel any better."

"Slightly." He shrugged, watching her pick her way toward the rock face. "Although I don't think that ordeal back there is inspiring any confidence," Bucky added.

"I don't think slippery muddy rocks have any bearing on my ability to climb and jump off a ledge, James Barnes." She laughed, starting her ascent upward. "But I take your point." She paused, hauling herself on top of the ledge. Bucky winced but kept a careful eye on her as she scrabbled atop the flat surface. "You can't tell me that you and Steve and your sisters didn't do anything ill-advised when you were younger." She said, her voice echoing over the water as she approached the edge of the ledge, she glanced down a moment.

"We did. I'd argue Steve never stopped, but I can't say that I'd recommend a lot of what we did as kids to anyone today."

"I'm not sure if one could argue you and Steve turned out okay, but I can certainly vouch for Becca." She laughed, but there was something pitchy about it, something uncertain.

He frowned as he watched her approach and then back away from the ledge._ Something's wrong. _"You okay?"

"Yeah. About that." Her voice was small and shaky. She laughed weakly, approaching the ledge, peering down before backing away again.

_Holy cow, she's afraid of heights. _He almost laughed. Almost. It was a bit of a relief to know that the woman who had harbored the Winter Soldier in her barn, performed light medical and mechanical operations in a grimy outbuilding, survived a Hydra raid on her house and subsequent torture, and had spent two and half years in some state of hiding or on the run was afraid of something. Or rather, in Bucky's mind, possessed at least an iota of what could remotely be called a survival instinct. Your average human wasn't built to survive large drops and so tended to be adverse to them. So far as he was aware, she wasn't medically modified or super-powered, so her survival instinct was doing what it was supposed to in the face of danger, telling her not to jump. He looked up and saw that she was watching him, doing her best to keep the fear out of her eyes and failing.

"Yeah. Yeah. I know." Ramirez said in what Bucky was sure she thought was a light-hearted and sarcastic voice. Instead, it came out leaden with terror.

_Of all things to be afraid of, heights. She should be terrified of me, on principle, but no heights are what does it. _There were worse things, but in context, it was the slightest bit amusing.

The wind blew, and she shivered. "The longer you stand up there, the worse it's going to get Ramirez," He called. "You could always climb down."

"And give you the satisfaction?" She asked.

Bucky paused, uncertain of how to respond. _She doesn't really care what I think of her, does she? _He pondered a moment. Not that he for a second would think less of her for something like this, it was just strange to think that she cared what he thought. Ramirez was willful, self-possessed, and confident. She shouldn't care what he thought. And so she was afraid of heights, so what? In point of fact, so was he. The only difference between the two of them was that he'd had all self-preservation instincts manually switched off for 70 years by a bunch of sadistic mother fuckers and the medical modifications to ensure he didn't die if he did take a massive fall.

"I wouldn't put much stock in what _I _think. I'm a 100-year-old cyborg with a history of very bad decision making." He said dryly.

"But?"

"But," he continued, "if you take a running start, you won't have time to overthink. You'll be over the edge before you can stop yourself. When you get airborne, just make sure you cross your ankles and cross your arms across your chest. It'll make sure you don't hurt yourself on accident," He said. It was the best he could do in the given circumstances.

"Uh, huh." Ramirez nodded.

"And remember you enlisted me to drag you out if you do hit your head. So you got nothing to worry about."

"Thanks for that, Barnes." She said with an audible twang, backing toward the cliff wall and out of his line of sight.

"Hey!" Bucky called, a smile twisting at the corner of his mouth.

"Don't you say it!" Ramirez warned.

"Here's look-"

He was cut short by what could best be described as a battle cry as Ramirez sprinted from the ledge. The cry transformed into a scream which was drowned out by a splash and then silence. Bucky held his breath, watching the spot where she'd disappeared into the water, silently counting, waiting for her to come up.

Ramirez breached the surface coughing and gasping for air. "You alright?" He asked, swimming out to where she was treading water. She didn't answer. "Ramirez, you gotta answer me," Bucky said adamantly as he swam over to her. She nodded, coughing.

He surveyed her a moment before determining that other than being out of breath, she appeared to be okay. "Come on, let's get you on dry land."

Ramirez nodded again, and they both made for the shoreline. "Well. You survived your first cliff dive. How do you feel?" Bucky asked once they both could wade toward the shore.

She chuckled weakly, "Uhhh. Terrible. I thought it wouldn't be so bad. It didn't look so high up from down here. I don't think I'll be making a habit of that."

"Sounds like a smart move all around."

"I'd agree." She was shaking from head to toe, her arms wrapped around her torso. She had been scared. More scared than he'd certainly ever seen her. Bucky gently guided her to where they'd set up, and they both sat down in the grass. Ramirez lay flat on her back, chest heaving, and squeezed her eyes shut.

"You did good, Ramirez," He commented after a moment.

"Thanks, Barnes."

Bucky said nothing but watched her in silence, giving her the time and space she needed to come down from her adrenaline rush. After a moment, she rolled onto her stomach and dragged her bag toward her. Removing a mango and a knife, she rolled back over and sat up. "Would you like half," Ramirez asked, as she started cutting into the large fruit.

"Sure." He shrugged.

She worked slowly and purposefully as she cut the mango in half, handing him the larger of the two pieces. "Thanks." Bucky murmured as he took it from her, their hands momentarily brushing.

"No problem." She replied.

Ramirez took a big bite of hers, juice running down her chin, and she looked up just in time to catch his gaze. "What?" She laughed with her mouth full, a blush rising on her cheeks.

"Nothin." He shook his head, biting into the mango.

Ramirez nodded, taking another bite. She chewed thoughtfully and swallowed. "You know what I miss from home?"

"What's that?" Bucky asked.

"A good cantaloupe," She answered.

"Really?" He raised an eyebrow. Of all the things he thought she might say, Cantaloupe hadn't made the list, any list, ever. "Cantaloupe?"

"Yeah. A good one, mind you. Pecos cantaloupes are the best cantaloupes in the world. Ramirez said wistfully, and Bucky new that she was going somewhere far away, crossing time and space beyond his reach. "They're the sweetest, juiciest, most delicious cantaloupes in the world. It's hotter and dryer than hell out in Pecos, which I guess is why the cantaloupes from there taste so good. You know you have a good one when the rind is coated in the dry powdery dirt when you get it from the supermarket. My mom would always cut one up and stick it in the cooler with watermelon when we'd go to the lake. That way, when we got out of the water, we could have a cold snack before lunch." She smiled, taking another bite of the mango.

"Sounds nice." He commented.

"Mhhh hmmm," Ramirez mumbled, taking another bite of the mango. She shook her head and swallowed. "The mango just isn't doing it for me at the moment." She settled back into the grass, still holding the mango. "What about you, Barnes? Is there something you miss from home?"

Bucky paused. What could he possibly say that wouldn't turn this into a really dark conversation? _I miss having my arm. I miss having my sanity. I miss sleeping through the night without waking up in cold sweats. I miss not being an international war criminal. _No, she'd asked an innocent question. He wouldn't muddy the waters with something so...morose. "Uhhh. I miss my mother's Latkes." He blurted out.

It was true. He'd spend the last few days thinking about celebrations, about how his family had always gathered together for every holiday and had a meal together. It was still difficult to think about his family, think about the fact he hadn't been able to say goodbye. He hadn't really thought about what he missed from home. He'd thought a lot about what he'd lost, about the things that he could never get back, but never about home itself and what made it so special. It was more a feeling more of a sensation than an actual experience—something intangible just on the tip of his tongue. "I miss how simple everything felt. Steve and I dancing in our socks to the radio, helping my sisters with their homework, helping Becca with her hair. Watching my mother cook during the holidays and being shooed from the kitchen when I tried to sneak a bite before it was ready." He shook his head. "It was a long time ago."

"That sounds lovely." Ramirez paused, a contemplative, somber expression crossed her face.

"What?"

"Latkes. I haven't had them in a few years." She sighed wistfully.

_Since Becca died, s_he didn't say it, but Bucky knew the tone. "Well, we'll have to remedy that sometime before Hanukkah ends." He commented slowly, wincing the metal of the shoulder plate was heating up, he could feel the skin around it burning.

"You okay?" Ramirez asked, sitting up, concern riddling her expression.

"Oh. Just hot metal on skin." Bucky shrugged.

"That doesn't look or sound comfortable." She said, setting down the mango, she reached up to her hair and started untying the headscarf holding her hair in place.

"It's...fine...what are you doing?" He asked, watching as her hair cascaded from the scarf, falling in dark tendrils down her back. She untwisted the fabric, flattening it to its real length and width.

"Will you trust me?" Ramirez inquired, rising to her feet, standing over him expectantly.

He looked her up and down skeptically. "Why?"

"Oh. Right. So." She continued. "This scarf is woven with special cooling technology. Don't ask me how it works because I can't explain it, but basically, it detects your body temperature with the outside temperature and keeps you cool in the heat." She explained, "May I?" Ramirez motioned to his left shoulder with her chin.

Bucky looked between her and the scarf and nodded hesitantly, more curious to see where she was going with this than apprehensive about what she might do.

"So I'm going to wrap this around your left shoulder, and the prosthesis, and then tie it around your body, and knot it against your right rib cage." She explained as she knelt down beside him. "It'll cool down your core and should relieve some of the burning."

"Okay." He managed.

Ramirez hesitated. "I'm not going to do this unless I have your consent."

_Why? Why do you care so much? _He couldn't help but wonder. Instead, he nodded, "You have my consent."

"Okay. let me know if anything I do hurts you." She said.

Just like back in the outbuilding, just like on Last Chance, she was worried about hurting him, even when they both knew that he was more likely the one to hurt her than vice versa.

Ramirez moved quickly and purposefully, draping the scarf over his left shoulder and the fabric cap of the Winter Soldier prosthesis. The wet fabric was cool against his skin and immediately eased the burning sensation creeping into his shoulder and neck. She pulled the two ends of the scarf down to his left rib cage, where the plate was inset and pressed the cloth against the seam of metal and skin. He winced, and she withdrew her hands. "I'm sorry." Ramirez rushed.

"I should've warned you that part is more sensitive." He replied, looking up into her concerned expression. "There very little you could do to hurt me that hasn't been done before."

"I know, but it doesn't mean that you should grin and bear the discomfort." She murmured as she continued her work.

_Grin and bear the discomfort. _That was what he was doing, wasn't it? It's what he'd done for two years while on the run. It's what he'd done in the immediate aftermath of the prosthesis being blown off. It's what he did, in some small part, when ignoring the stares and whispers as he walked past. But he didn't have to, at least according to Ramirez. He _shouldn't_ have to bear the discomfort. Yet somehow, he didn't necessarily see that there was any alternative.

"I'm going to tie the scarf across your body, and knot it against your right rib cage. If I may?"

"Sure."

Ramirez resuming her work adjusting the fabric, she leaned into him, her hair falling over her shoulders in waves, their loose ends brushing against his skin. "Excuse me." She said, moving around him, she pulled the scarf taut and tied the ends together, knotting them firmly. "Is that too tight? Can you breathe just fine?" Ramirez asked.

"Yeah. It's good." Bucky nodded, exhaling a deep breath.

"You might want to put your shirt back on Lobo Blanco, whettos don't normally fare very well in the sun." She smiled, her hands trailing over his shoulders before she sat back down on the grass beside him and resumed eating her mango.

"Thank you." He said after a moment. He could feel his core body temperature dropping to a more tolerable level.

"No problem," Ramirez said, as she took another bite of her mango.

Bucky closed his eyes and inhaled a long breath. He could smell the dampness of the scarf, taste and smell the sweetness of the mango, feel the warmth of the sun against his bare skin, hear the sound of the water crashing over the falls. This was about as close to paradise as he would ever come, and he was closer to paradise than he deserved, but it wasn't home. It wasn't his home. His home was far away in a time and space that no longer existed.

Ramirez rolled onto her back and covering her face with her hands. There were dirt and bits of grass on her stomach, her legs bent, her feet flat on the ground, toes gripping into the damp soil and grass. She looked so vulnerable and open. _Fearless. _Wholly and utterly fearless. How was she handling all of this? It had been Christmas a few days ago. How was she handling being alone for the holidays? Being separated from friends and family, and anything remotely familiar? If it was bothering her, she certainly wasn't letting on.

Bucky paused, thinking about the absolute relief that had crossed her expression when he'd produced the wedding bands. Perhaps she wasn't handling all of this as well as he thought. Maybe she was having as hard of a time as he was with all of this.

Bucky watched her a moment longer, lounging in the grass as he mustered the courage to ask what he was getting ready to say. "You responded to Wilson's audio message yet?"

She stiffened, glancing up at him. "No. You responded to Steve's yet?"

"No." He shook his head.

"Oh, thank god." She breathed.

Bucky frowned. That wasn't necessarily the reaction he'd expected from her. "What?"

"Oh. I thought I was the only one. I can't for the life of me think of what I want to say." She explained quickly.

"You too, huh?" He had to keep from smiling as relief washed over him. He _wasn't_ the only one.

"I've been trying to figure out what I want to say since last week, and it's eating me up from the inside out," Ramirez admitted, biting the corner of her mouth, she shook her head. "It was a lot easier when I was stateside and had the ranch to report about."

"You and Wilson exchanged letters?"

"When he and Riley were on tour, yeah. We did audio letters too. I have them somewhere." She shook her head. "I don't know what Sam wants to hear. I don't want to _lie_, but then again, I don't want to worry him either."

"Yeah, I get that."

Ramirez paused, adjusting, she rolled over to look at him. "What a pair we are, Bucky Barnes." She paused a moment before speaking again. "Did you get a message from Natasha?"

The question surprised him. It wasn't that he was surprised Ramirez would be concerned about Natasha. It was that he was surprised she would mention anything about it to him. "No." He shook his head. "Steve said that she'd found them, but didn't provide much else in the way of detail."

"Yeah. Sam too. He said that she sent her regards." Ramirez sighed, rolling onto her back and throwing her arm over her face again. "I miss her."

Y_eah, me too. _He didn't say it. He didn't really need to say it. Ramirez knew, perhaps not all, but enough about him and about his time with Hydra to know about him and Natasha. What surprised him was that Ramirez didn't push. She never pushed, about anything, more or less. If he'd been in her place, he'd have thousands of questions, even after all the research she'd done. Yet, if she did, she kept them to herself. Bucky wasn't quite sure what to think about that.

Bucky paused, pulled momentarily from his thoughts at the sound of Ramirez humming, just barely audible over the roar of the waterfall. _"There'll be snow and mistletoe and presents under the tree." _He recognized the tune.

"A fan of Bing Crosby?" Bucky inquired, breaking the silence.

"Yeah. Kinda? Sam sang some of it for the recording he sent me, and it's been stuck in my head ever since. Why? You a fan?"

"I saw him once when he was touring with the USO."

At this, Ramirez sat back up, starring. "What?"

"What do you mean, what? He toured with the USO, and Steve had connections being a hardened veteran of show business himself. Or did Steve fail to mention that?"

"Yeah, no. It never came up. The bastard." Ramirez said, sounding more than a little scandalized.

At this, Bucky laughed. "I guess he also didn't tell you that he personally plowed over Glenn Miller in an attempt to avoid his handler before a show in Alabama."

"Yeah, that would also be a no."

"So all you did for two years was sit around and talk about me then, huh?" Bucky raised an eyebrow.

"Well, not to inflate your ego anymore than this is going to, but yes, that sounds about right."

"Sounds pretty boring."

"Not as boring as you might think." She chuckled, flopping back down into the grass.

"Really?"

"Really, James Barnes," Ramirez said. "Though I have to admit, your sister was far more forthcoming with the funny stories than Steve was."

"Oh, no."

"My particular favorite was about that time she found you naked out on the fire escape at six in the morning when you nearly made the little old lady across the way faint from the shock. What did Becca say her name was...?"

"Mrs. McGregor, Fanny McGregor. God...jeezus." Bucky buried his face in his hand. "Why?"

"Because I was having a bad day, and your sister was trying to make me laugh."

"Did it work?"

"Yes. Becca was a phenomenal storyteller." Ramirez chuckled. "It's not so bad, Barnes. I was once arrested for public indecency and animal endangerment."

"I saw that in your record, what was it for?"

"Riding one of my friend's horse around town bareback...while completely naked..." She paused, and to Bucky's satisfaction went several shades of scarlet. "Well, almost completely, I was wearing a silver sequined cowgirl hat."

"That sounds like a story. You tell my sister that one?"

"No. Heavens, no. I was never quite drunk enough to tell her that one." Her voice went up nearly an entire octave until it was nearly manic. "I was in college, it was on a dare, and I was absolutely and completely trashed."

"I bet."

Ramirez rolled her eyes, though very clearly still embarrassed, shook her head. She sighed, "I miss your sister. Those first six months after..." She faded off, chewing on the inside of her mouth before continuing. "Those first few months after Last Chance, it was hard, losing everyone, losing my support network, Bill, Mike, Suzanne, but your sister gave me a sense of normalcy, a sense of direction." Ramirez sighed, looking up at him. "She really was a terrific human being, and I'm sorry you didn't get the chance to see one another again before she passed away."

Bucky didn't know what to say, what he could say. They fell back into silence as they sat in the shade, eating their mangos, and listening to the sounds of the waterfall and jungle around them.

Then, he heard it, the sound of Ramirez's kimoyo bracelet buzzing. Sitting up, she groaned irritably. "Barnes, you _really_ should start wearing your kimoyo bracelet more."

"Huh? Why's that?"

"The Princess Shuri was trying to get ahold of you for something or another, then contacted Omondi, who went to find that you weren't there, and so now they're buzzing me."

"Damn," He grumbled, shaking his head. "What are they saying?'

"Just asking if you're with me." She answered with a sigh as she started typing in the message, paused, glancing over at him. "Do you want me to lie or tell the truth?"

"Lie?" He raised an eyebrow.

"I dunno, if you wanna avoid them or whatever. I'd be willing to cover." A mischievous expression passed momentarily over her face.

"No. Tell them you're with me and that I'll be back in the village in thirty minutes." Bucky replied with a heavy sigh as he turned to collect his shirt and scarf, which were both drying beside him.

"We should both probably head back." She said as she sent the message.

"I didn't mean to cut your outing short," Bucky said, a twinge of guilt twisting in the pit of his stomach.

"Not at all. I came, I saw, I swam, I chilled, and now I think I'm ready to go back and face reality for a little bit." She shrugged, pulling the dress over her head, and buttoning the collar and cuffs.

"If you're sure." He said, tugging on his boots.

"I am." She nodded.

"Do you want your scarf back?" He asked, watching as she twisted her hair into a tidy little bun on the top of her head.

"You can keep it, I think, in this heat, you need it more than I do." She said.

"You don't have to do that, I don't want to take your stuff," He stammered.

Ramirez paused, her right hand fiddling with the clasp of the bracelet he'd bought her for her birthday, "Consider it a Hanukkah present, and a thank you gift for finding and returning the wedding bands to me."

Bucky paused, surveying her. _A Hanukkah present? A thank you gift? _He would've protested, but he got the nagging sensation that it would be a losing battle. Nodding in admitted defeat, he pulled on his shirt, fastening the buttons, before wrapping his scarf back around him.

"You ready then?" Ramirez asked, crouched by the water's edge and refilling the water skin.

"Yeah." He nodded, picking up her bag, he slung it over his shoulder.

Ramirez look at him, opened her mouth to say something but thought better of it as she re-sealed the water skin. "Shall we? Bucky Barnes? Handler of the bags, and protector of women?" She asked, with a wry smile.

He rolled his eyes but nodded, trying to ignore the way that his stomach fluttered at the sound of her saying his name, and they started walking back the way they'd come earlier in the afternoon.

_I have to find a way to get her back. I can't just let her _give_ me her scarf. _He pondered as they walked. "So I was thinking," He began slowly.

"That's a dangerous past time," Ramirez chuckled.

"Right?" Bucky agreed but pressed forward anyway. "Since it is still Hanukkah for the next few days, I was wondering if you'd like to come over to my place for dinner tonight, maybe finish up Gone with the Wind. I was thinking about trying to recreate my mother's Latke recipe. Since you've had them more recently than I have, you'd have a keener sense of if my recipe is accurate than I would."

Ramirez stopped and looked back at him, "That's really kind of you, Barnes, but I'm afraid I can't."

"Oh. Okay." He nodded, hoping that she couldn't see the look of disappointment he was sure was written across his face.

"I have some things I need to take care of. That message back to Sam for one. Can we do tomorrow?" She said as they started walking again.

"Well, I don't exactly have any pressing appointments," Bucky said, glancing around. "So yeah, tomorrow sounds good."

"Awesome, what time?"

"How does seven sound?"

"Perfect." Ramirez smiled as they entered the clearing where they'd met earlier in the afternoon. "I believe this is where we part ways, Bucky Barnes. My bag, please."

"Of course." He nodded, removing the bag and extending it to her.

She took the bag with both hands and slung the strap across her chest. "Thank you for going on an adventure with me today. I hope you had fun."

"Yeah. We should do it again sometime."

"For sure." She paused, adjusting the bag. "So, tomorrow, then?"

"Yeah. Tomorrow."

"Sounds good. I'll see you then. Let me know if I can bring anything."

"I think I can manage, but I'll let you know if I think of anything."

"Awesome. Have a good evening Barnes."

"You too, Ramirez."

There was a slight pause as they both made eye contact, and there was something in her expression that made Bucky pause. Before he could put his finger on what exactly it was, she smiled, nodded, and started walking back toward the horse village.

So she was going back to the village to send off her recording to Sam. Maybe, whenever he'd settled whatever it was that the Princess needed from him, he'd send off his message to Steve. He just might have something to say now, and with the promise of Latkes wafting in the air, he'd be able to send off a good message to Steve.

Watching until she disappeared from sight, Bucky turned and headed back down the path he'd come just a few hours before.

* * *

Maggie could feel his gaze on her as she walked away, and she smiled. That had been fun, had been a lot of fun, and from the sounds of it, Barnes had enjoyed himself as well, which felt like a big win all around. Aside from that, they'd made plans for tomorrow, which meant that she had something to look forward to, something to keep her mind off everything else swirling in her brain.

She made it back to the village and ducked inside.

Digging the wedding bands and chain out of the bag, she draped the chain around the Our Lady of Guadalupe statue and placed the rings on the statue's hands.

Maggie smiled gently as she stroked the statue's face. _Someday you'll be able to take off those wedding bands without feeling like you're removing a part of yourself. Not today, not for a while yet, but eventually, it won't hurt quite so much._ She could hear Becca say, back in her living room, what felt like a thousand years ago.

It hadn't felt that way this afternoon when she'd been so frantic she'd nearly made herself sick. It had felt like the world was ending, felt like everything was going to be crashing down around her. But then, it hadn't, and once the initial panic had passed, she'd been able to move forward. She was thankful that Barnes had found them and was glad to have them back, of course, but she wouldn't put them on a new chain and wouldn't have them chain clasp repaired. Having them on her grandmother's statue would be enough. It hurt, but it didn't hurt nearly as bad as she thought it would.

_You're healing._ She would've told her clients, had this been one of them. Instead, it was just her and her thoughts, and she had no one to tell, no one to remark on her slow, very slow progress. Maybe that was okay too.

Picking up the Kimoyo bead, she sat down and hit record. "Hey, Sammie! Thank you for your message. I'm glad to hear that you're doing well and that the gang is together and likewise in good spirits and health." She began brightly. "Sorry, it took me so long to get back to you. I wasn't quite sure what to say." She admitted. "I'm doing okay here, doing my best to settle into a routine. I really have enjoyed working with horses again. It's been fun." Maggie paused, taking in a deep breath. "Barnes and I have been hanging out, watching movies from the AFI's 100 greatest American films list. Apparently, Steve has some strong feelings about Citizen Kane you need to ask him about. We went to the falls today, and I jumped off a big ledge into the water, which you know how I am about heights. I was concerned that Barnes was going to have to come and extract me from the top." She chuckled. "But we're good, I'm good. We're doing well here." Maggie paused again, looking around, a small smile turned up the corners of her mouth. Taking a deep breath, she began to sing. "Have yourself a merry little Christmas, make the let your heart be light, from now on your troubles will be out of sight." She continued singing.

The hut didn't have the best acoustics, her voice was pitchy, but she managed through the whole thing without her voice wavering. And she wished, with all of her heart, with all of her might for the lyrics to be true. That their troubles would be miles away, that they'd all be able to gather nearer to one another than they were now, and that perhaps they'd be able to spend the years together, all of them, together, happy, like they'd been so very briefly that first holiday season together.

However, for now, it would just be her and Barnes. And while she never would admit it, it felt good to have a friend, to have James Barnes as her friend.

* * *

A/N: This chapter was GARGANTUAN! But I hope it was a lot of fun to read. We got a little bit of serious, a little bit of funny, a little bit of silly, and yes, a WHOLE BIG DISNEY Mood. I hope you R&R, I look forward to seeing what you all think! Happy Reading!


	41. Gone With The Wind

Author's Note: Marvel owns what it owns, and I own what I own, let's keep it that way, shall we? Don't Sue me!

TW: self-harm, mentioned animal death, blood

Recommended Listening: Ugly Side by Blue October; The Run and Go by Twenty One Pilots; When You Were Young by The Killers

* * *

Chapter 41: Gone With the Wind

The day had been a total clusterfuck, and that was putting it lightly. It was always staggering to Maggie how much could change in a few hours, never mind in a whole twenty-four, and as she walked toward the village where Barnes resided, she wasn't entirely sure what exactly she was walking into.

For her part, she'd been thrown from her horse, Skywalker. She'd been learning a new technique, hadn't been paying attention, and the horse had decided that enough was enough. She'd been thrown from the saddle and had landed incorrectly on her left hand and wrist. That had been early in the day. So she'd spent most of her day with her hand on ice, moping around the workshop, trying to wile the hours away.

It was while she'd been doing a bit of cleaning up and trying not to feel sorry for herself that she'd overheard a conversation between Jelani and Omondi. Her Wakandan still wasn't great, but she knew enough to catch White Wolf, goat, dead. Not exactly a lot to go off of, but Maggie knew that whatever had happened, it hadn't been a good situation. Losing an animal, under any circumstance, was never easy. She'd lived on a ranch for most of her life, and occasionally shit just happened. It had happened to her on the ranch, and it hadn't been a good situation. No more than two weeks after Riley had died, Last Chance had gotten one hell of a bad thunderstorm. A horse, one of Riley's favorites, had kicked her way out of the stall and barn and had impaled herself on a fence post. By the time Maggie had found her, it was too late, and there was nothing to do for the poor creature but to put it out of its misery.

It had been a crushing blow, but Maggie had been able to handle it as a professional. Whatever had happened with Barnes and his goat, it couldn't have been an easy thing, and she could imagine that he was taking it personally. Her first instinct had, of course, been to call and cancel their standing dinner date...arrangement. There was no reason to put him through social interaction after an ordeal like that. Something, however, had stopped her. Barnes, for one, hadn't called to cancel, indicating in some small part that he _wanted_ her around or was looking for her company. If he didn't want her around in the aftermath, certainly he would've called and said something, right?

Maggie didn't know, and as she walked down the now familiar path toward his dwelling, she could feel a swelling sense of anxiety. The unknown factors all creating a churning bubbling mess of dread in the pit of her stomach.

Then she smelled it, the smell of utter despair, burnt food. It was the harsh, horrible smell of a kind of defeat. At least that's the way that she had always felt about the smell and the experience, and a likely indication for how their evening was going to progress.

Rounding the last bend toward his hut, she saw him, hunched over a squat little table, trying to manage a grater and potato with one hand. There were marks on his hand and arm, indicating that he'd somehow been hurt, although the nature of the injury Maggie couldn't tell from a distance. She could see the source of the burning smell, a large pan discarded in the dirt, the greasy, charred remains caked inside.

None of this was a good sign on its own, but as she approached, he didn't lookup. Instead, his eyes were down, and his mouth moving in silent mutterings.

"Hey," She said as she approached, doing her best to ease herself into his periphery as gently as possible.

He flinched at the sound, not looking up to meet her gaze. "I didn't think you'd come."

Maggie nodded as she set her bag down on one of the logs surrounding the cooking fire and turned to join him at the low squat table. "I am a little late. I should've called to let you know I was running behind." She paused, her resolve momentarily wavering before she charged on anyway. "I'm sorry about what happened. That's never an easy thing."

There was a long leaden pause. His head still down, Maggie could see him grit his jaw, swallowing hard before biting out. "You heard about that?"

"I did." She nodded, stooping down to pick up the pan, she gingerly picked it up and carried it to the compost bin, scraping it out.

"Is that why you're here?" He asked flatly.

"I figured we'd made plans yesterday, and I'm anxious to cross another movie off our list," Maggie paused as she walked over to the table. Standing over him, she waited for him to look up at her. She knew that his face would tell her everything she needed to know about what had happened.

"Is that all?" His voice was dry and scathing, but not, Maggie felt, entirely directed at her.

"Well. You didn't exactly cancel. I figured that you might want the company."

Barnes sighed, his shoulders sagging, and he looked up at her. "Who told you?"

There was anger, frustration, but most of all, sadness in his expression as he surveyed her. Maggie knew, in her heart of hearts, that whatever had happened, Barnes had been forced to put the poor creature out of its misery, and that he felt personally responsible for the animal's gristly end. "No one did, actually. I overheard Jelani and Omondi talking, caught some key phrases, and was able to piece together some of what had happened." She explained slowly. Maggie paused, "May I sit down? Or do you want me to go away?"

Maggie watched as he mulled things over, clicking his jaw, as he did. Then, after what seemed like an eternity, he nodded, and Maggie slowly sunk down across from him, collecting a rag, she doused it with cooking oil before setting about the task of cleaning and reconditioning the pan so that they could resume using it.

"I take it the first round of latkes didn't come out right." She commented dryly as she worked, determined to find some way to break the silence, and lighten the mood.

"Not exactly.

"Well," Maggie continued without pause, "Whatever the case, you have all the proper equipment. This pan is tremendously well seasoned. How long have you been using it?"

"Since September." He said flatly. "It was a gift from Omondi. He said he was looking to replace his, thought I could use it."

"Shit. Does he have any other well-seasoned pans just lying around? If I even tried to borrow my abuela's cast iron, I would've been drawn and quartered. This pan must be a dream to cook with. Omondi must like you, or doubt your ability to season one properly yourself." She said, wincing as she moved her left wrist the wrong way.

"What happened to your hand?"

"Oh." She hadn't expected that. S_o he'd noticed. He's not entirely in his head._ Maggie wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not but decided that she'd let that work itself out in due time. "I fell off Skywalker today."

"You okay?" His tone was sharp and brittle, but his expression bore the faintest lines of concern.

"Yeah," she nodded with a slight exhale. "Landed wrong, my wrist isn't happy about it. I'm sure I'll be right as rain in a few days. It did take me a little longer to make the snacks for this evening. Between dexterity issues and an aching wrist, it was not a good time."

_It freaked me the fuck out, but yeah, otherwise perfectly dandy. _It had been a while since she'd been thrown like that, and she'd fallen all wrong. Bad shit could happen if you didn't fall right. She'd seen it first hand. But he didn't need to know that, not when he was dealing with his own barrage of horrible things.

"I can imagine."

Maggie looked down, watching what he was doing a little more carefully. Blisters had formed where he'd been burned by the hot oil from the pan she was cleaning. Then there were scratches, cuts, and light bruising up and down his forearm that hadn't been there the day prior. Were they a result of what had happened today? It didn't matter. At the moment, He was struggling to keep a firm grip on the potato, which kept slipping over the grater's surface, mangling the potato he was attempting to slice up. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine." He bit out.

As he said it, the potato he was grating slipped, and he jammed his thumb along the grater's surface, taking a sizable chunk out of his nail bed, and knuckle. Barnes jumped up and back, nearly upsetting the table.

Maggie grabbed both corners, steadying the table before standing up, towel in hand ready to leap, if necessary, into action, and froze mid-motion, trying to take in everything she was seeing.

He was just standing there, looking at his hand as his thumb blossomed a magnificent red bloom. His eyes were transfixed, his chest heaving, and yet Maggie couldn't help but notice, his face was smooth and flat. _This,_ she realized, was self-harm or something approximating self-harm, and now her job was to find a way to break the spiral he found himself in before it devolved into something else.

_Is that really your job?_ The mean little voice in the back of her head questioned.

_Why the fuck wouldn't it be? I'm not just a therapist. He's my friend._ She would've responded full chested, had she responded out loud at all.

Instead, she looked Barnes up and down, "Barnes?" She called, with no response as he watched the blood run down his arm and drip from his elbow into the dust. "Bucky."

His eyes snapped up, locking with hers, something between anger and fear, filling them as they maintained eye contact. "You're bleeding. Let me staunch the blood flow and help you bandage your hand and arm."

"I'm fine. It's fine. I can do it myself." He snapped, even as his voice shook, his eyes darting down and around.

"Okay." She nodded, taking a metaphorical step back.

This was familiar. She recognized this. This was the anger she'd had when she'd needed Sam to help her wash her hair those first few months. This was the pain, anger, and frustration she'd felt when trying to relearn to play guitar. This was the feeling of helplessness and anger when you knew that only a few months ago, you would never have had this problem. Barnes was experiencing that right now. Only his was worse. He'd lost the same arm twice. He'd been forced into a life of brainwashing and torture. He'd been made to commit atrocity after atrocity, where his only respite had come by being shoved into a freezer and left until next use for years on end. If one could call that a respite. He had been through so much without time to process what had happened and what it meant. Now, after he'd finally had a quiet moment, tragedy had struck, and all of _this_ was rearing its ugly head.

_So, where do you fit in?_

Maggie wasn't quite sure. If he didn't want her help, she couldn't exactly force him to accept, while at the same time, she couldn't let the guy hurt himself. He wasn't her client, and she wasn't his therapist, but he was her friend, and she wanted to find a way to help him without crossing that very precarious threshold.

"I understand that you can do this on your own," Maggie said slowly. "You're more than capable of taking care of yourself, of getting by on your own," she faltered as his gaze snapped back to her. "But the thing is, you don't have to." She concluded lamely.

It wasn't her best line, but something crossed his expression, something unreadable, and after a long moment, he nodded and extended his hand toward her.

Maggie crossed the space between them, stopping before they met. "I'm going to wrap your thumb with this towel, squeeze it in your palm to stop the bleeding while I get my first-aid kit from my bag." She paused, glancing up at him. "Is that okay?"

"Yeah." He breathed, nodding firmly.

"Okay." She moved, quickly wrapping his thumb, watched as he squeezed it with his other fingers before she went for her bag, aware of the ways his eyes watched her.

They were back in the outbuilding once again. Only this time, she knew what he was capable of. Though she would admit it did help the situation slightly, he_ was _down an arm, hadn't just been stabbed, and wasn't running away from Hydra. That aside, there was still that wild-eyed panic that she'd recognize anywhere that resided in his expression.

"You carry a first aid kit with you?" He asked dryly as she dug through her bag.

"I do." She nodded, retrieving the desired items. "It's always handy to have one around. I've done that ever since I worked as an EMT back in college." It was a good sign that he was talking. It meant that he wasn't immediately hyper-fixating on anything.

"Handy," He chuckled mirthlessly.

_Naturally. __S_he'd let him have that one, at the very least.

"All right. let's sit down on the log, that way I can face you, and see what I'm doing." She said as she swung her leg over the log and sat down.

Barnes said nothing, moving toward her, he sat straddling the log to face her. Opening the first aid kit, she flexed her left hand, rubbing it gingerly with her right. He was watching her. For what purpose, she didn't know exactly, but somehow the observation made her stomach twist in nervous knots.

_Well, this is all very familiar. _She glanced up at him and sighed, "Okay. So while we wait for the bleeding to stop, I can clean and dress those scrapes and burns on your hand and arm."

"Oh." He said flatly.

"Oh?" She echoed, pulling her hands away from the first aid kit.

"I should've guessed you'd noticed that," Barnes replied, not quite sheepishly, but close enough for horseshoes and hand grenades.

What exactly he meant by that, she didn't know, but the sheer amount of shame in his voice made Maggie do a metaphorical double take. _I can do it myself._ That's what he'd said.

Maggie knew that feeling, probably more than she cared to admit. The shame and anger as she tried to figure out how to wash or put up her hair or button her jeans without help. That and the countless other things she'd needed help with when her hand had been in the various stages of surgery, pins, and cast. The frustration and fury she'd felt when after she'd gotten the cast and pins out and off, she'd started figuring out the countless things that she couldn't do anymore, that she would never be able to do anymore. She'd been alone with that feeling of helplessness of anger, and she didn't want Barnes to be alone with that now.

"I don't know what you're going through, not exactly." She said slowly. "But I know some of what it's like to feel so helplessly and completely angry about a situation that you can't think straight. That anger, that's okay, it's okay to be angry at your situation, at what happened to you, at what was done to you, but don't let that anger convince you that you deserve to hurt, or convince you that you're alone, because you're not alone, and you don't deserve to hurt. Don't let it consume you when you're so much more than what it's telling you that you are."

Barnes surveyed her a moment, his eyes searching for something, and then wordlessly, he nodded and extended his arm to her.

"All right." She explained, removing the appropriate items from her kit, wincing slightly as her wrist twinged. "I have an anti-bacterial for the scrapes and an aloe for the burns. I'll apply the aloe to the burns first. That'll alleviate the immediate discomfort."

"You don't have to help if it's hurting your hand and wrist," he mumbled, as if searching for some way out of this, some way to let her off the hook if she wanted.

"I'll let you know," Maggie answered, pausing as she unscrewed the aloe. "It's not so bad anymore. It certainly has gotten better since you gave me the bracelet," She hazarded a glance up at him and found him avidly avoiding her gaze. "But, thank you for your concern." She said as she started applying the aloe with her left hand, her right hand holding his arm steady.

He winced, hissing between his teeth.

"It's a little cold. Sorry. I should've said something."

"I've had worse." He bit out shortly.

"Certainly. At least this time, there isn't a knife protruding from your shoulder. By that measure alone, we're going up in the world."

Barnes snorted, shaking his head, but didn't try to pull away from her grasp even as his hand shook.

"Nevertheless, the same rules apply, let me know if I'm hurting you."

"It's just cold."

"Well, all the same," Maggie said as she worked.

He nodded, but said nothing, watching her with those bright eyes. He was the perfect patient. He let her manipulate his hand and held it still, although she could feel him trembling.

Maggie wanted to tell him it was going to be okay, that this feeling would pass. There were any number of platitudes that she would've said in soothing tones, had she thought any of them might have helped. But she knew they wouldn't, and so instead, she hummed, focusing on completing her task quickly while trying to minimize as much of Barnes's discomfort as she could possibly manage.

"And we're done!" She announced as she finished securing the bandage around his thumb. "How does that feel? Better?" Maggie asked brightly, feeling more like the school nurse than someone patching up a former brainwashed assassin.

"Better." He agreed. "Thank you."

"Of course. Anytime." Maggie smiled gently, watching as he slowly withdrew his hand and rose to his feet. She wanted to call him back. She wanted to reach out and grab his hand and hold it in both of hers and tell him it was going to be okay. She wanted the pain drawn lines in his expression to ease, and for him to smile and laugh as they'd done only twenty-four hours before.

The feeling came over her so suddenly, and with such force, she almost didn't know what to do with herself. _What are you doing, Magdalene? _She would've screamed.

_He's my friend!_

And it was true. He was her friend. She was concerned for him. Now, whether or not she was just a convenient distraction for him, she didn't know, and at this point, she was afraid to find out.

"Hey, Barnes." She called, watching as he stopped, his back to her before he slowly turned to face her.

"Yeah?"

"It _is _okay that I'm here, right?" She asked uncertainly.

"What do you mean?" He replied, perplexed.

"I mean. Do you _want_ me here? I can leave if you want."

Barnes hesitated, looking her over a moment before speaking again. "Why are you doing this, Ramirez?"

"Well..." She began slowly. "I was having a bit of a shit day yesterday, and you came to my rescue, were game for an adventure, and we had a lovely time. Since you never called to cancel after what happened, I figured you might be looking for a distraction or even a sympathetic ear." Maggie paused, chewing on the corner of her mouth. "This living in Wakanda thing is hard, and a friend would be nice to have, someone to turn to when shit gets bad. And well, the shit that happened, that's not something you should have to deal with on your own."

Barnes nodded, lowering his gaze. "I don't think you want me as a friend, Ramirez."

Was that an "I don't want you as a friend so you shouldn't want to be my friend" type comment, or, "I'm not someone you should want as a friend" type comment? Maggie wasn't sure. So she wasn't going to attempt to guess.

"Well, fortunately for both of us, you don't get to decide who I want to be friends with." She paused as he shifted uncomfortably. "But then again, I don't get to decide who you want to be friends with _either. _The only question you have to answer is, do you want me as your friend?"

"It's all as easy as that, huh?" He asked, raising an eyebrow.

"No, not quite. Friendship and all relationships, for that matter, are a moment by moment exercise in consent. Two willing participants. Choosing when and how they wish to interact and communicating their desires with one another."

"Sounds novel." He commented wryly.

"Right? Well. It only works if both people are honest," She said slowly. "Which makes this next question important. Do you-"

"Do you want to stay?" He asked, cutting her off.

Maggie exhaled with a small chuckle as she shook her head, "that's not the point."

"I think that is the point, Ramirez. You were just the one talking about two willing participants."

"I'm also the one who's in your home, invading your space after you had a shitty day."

There was a long pause as if Barnes was drawing in a long breath. "Stay." He said, forming the word purposefully. "I want..." He faltered. "I want you to stay." He concluded firmly. Barnes stopped, glancing back down and around at what remained of the potatoes and the rest of dinner that still needed to be prepared. "Although, I'm not sure if dinner is in the equation."

"Will you walk me through it?" Maggie asked hesitantly.

"Huh?"

"I'm willing to make dinner if you tell me what to do."

He paused, a slight twinge of a self-deprecating smile twisted at the corner of his mouth. "I should hurt myself more often if it means having a beautiful dame patch me up and cook me dinner."

If it had been anyone else or even another circumstance, Maggie might have protested. Instead, she chuckled, cracking a small smile of her own. "Why James Barnes, ever know a woman who wasn't a doll or a dame?"

Barnes shook his head, "What was the line Dana Andrews responded with?"

"Yeah, one, but she kept walking me past furniture windows to look at the parlor suites." Maggie supplied.

"So the line, 'A doll from Washington Heights once got a fox fur out of me' that comes before or after that exchange?" Barnes said, squinting into the air as if straining to recall.

"Yeah, before." She nodded. "So, how 'bout it, Bucky Barnes?" He looked back at her, brows furrowed. "Dinner?"

"Oh. Yeah. Right." He hesitated, "You'd probably have a better feel for the latkes than I would at the moment. If you're willing to take my instruction."

"Absolutely."

"Then it sounds like a plan."

"Sounds good." She smiled. It might only be dinner, but for now, it seemed that they were headed in the right direction.

* * *

Ramirez jumped quickly into action. Cleaning up the first aid kit and stowing it away, she sunk down at the squat table where he'd been working and started back grating potatoes, after she'd washed and cleaned all of the stuff he'd gotten blood on. Bucky watched as Ramirez worked the grater and expertly added and mixed everything together, forming and patting the potatoes into their proper shape.

She hummed pleasantly as she worked, her eyes focused on her task, occasionally asking him for guidance, though he couldn't help but notice that she already knew the answer before he'd even said it. Her hands and her mouth worked separately. Becca or Steve'd obviously coached her during her time with them. He couldn't help but imagine the chaos that would have been Becca's kitchen during any number of family holidays and gatherings. Steve towering over the group, too big and in the way, Ramirez diminutive and trying her best to keep her distance as an outsider, while Becca and the rest of her family surged in around them, pushing them both to the center of the fray.

He felt jealous, angry, hurt, and somehow confused all at once. What he was feeling, and why he was feeling it swirled inside him, creating a maelstrom. It wasn't fair, none of it was fair, and he could still feel the anger, simmering just below the surface. He felt shame too, and it welled in his chest, nearly overtaking the sour, bitter taste of the anger that threatened to devour him completely.

His left shoulder was stinging, a sharp pain in his spine, the air where his left hand and arm _should _have been burned and ached. It had been stinging all day, ever since...well, what had happened had happened. His right hand, _his only hand _he mentally corrected, was throbbing, the little cuts and bruises, and burns stinging and aching as he flexed his fingers.

He could see it still, the goat staring up at him, eyes glassy and wide, practically begging for the end. Of course, he'd put the poor creature out of its misery, but then again, that's really all he was good at, wasn't it? He'd been good at it as a soldier. He'd been even better at it when he'd been with Hydra. Now, even thousands of miles away from that rat hole, missing a limb, and allegedly free from their programming, he was still in their insidious clutches. He was still capable of causing pain, suffering, and death.

Omondi had assured him that he'd done the right thing, that sometimes these things happened.

_But they shouldn't. I should've been able to stop it. I should be better than this._

He hadn't said that, but he felt it, in his bones, down to the very fiber of his being. He felt inadequate. He felt useless. He felt like a complete and total idiot for thinking that he might be able to move past what had happened to him, for thinking he could be something more than what Hydra had made him into. Yet here they were.

Bucky glanced up at Ramirez, who was patiently waiting for the oil to heat as she prepped the rest of dinner. He'd invited her over for dinner to thank her for being his friend, and now here she was patching him up and cooking him dinner, yet again.

_Why is she doing this?_

He'd asked her that. And she'd said because she'd wanted a friend, that she'd wanted to be his friend. Because she was bored? Because she was lonely? He didn't know, and as she'd said, he didn't get to decide why she wanted to be friends with him.

"How's your hand feeling?"

"Better," Bucky replied with a slight exhale, doing his best to relieve the tension still balled up in his chest, trying to claw it's way out.

"That's good, I'm glad," Ramirez commented, placing the first of the latkes into the pan. She hummed to herself, her eyes watching the potatoes as they bobbed in the oil.

"Do you like cooking?" He asked slowly after a moment as she flipped the potato cakes over.

"Some." She nodded, "I prefer cooking for other people. There's just something about cooking a meal with and for other people that I really enjoy. I don't know if it's a me thing, a Mexican thing, or what, but I've always enjoyed the fellowship a good meal creates." Ramirez glanced up at him and smiled gently. "How about you, Barnes? Did you pick up any good recipes while you were out in the world?"

"A few."

"You'll have to share some time. I'd be happy to give you some of mine if you'd like. Do you keep kosher?" She asked brightly without skipping a beat as she scooped the first latkes out of the oil and placed them on a plate beside her before placing the next batch in the oil.

The latkes were golden brown and glistening, and the smell that wafted off of them made his mouth water. He could practically hear his mother scold and swat him away as he tried to sneak one before it was time. The force of the memory was so strong that he could feel tears start to well in the corners of his eyes.

"Taste test my work, see if it's up to snuff," Ramirez commented.

"You sure?" He managed, blinking.

"Absolutely. I need to know if I need to change anything before I do the rest of them."

He gingerly picked up one of the little potato cakes and took a careful bite, exhaling as the hot greasy mass burned the inside of his mouth. That hadn't changed at all, and the taste...the taste was close, as was the consistency, but he couldn't quite put his finger on what exactly was off as Ramirez's expression of expectation grew and spread in anticipation. "It's good." He said, swallowing the first bite.

"May I?" She motioned with her chin to the latke he was holding.

"Huh?"

"Shove some in my face? My hands are occupied, but I'd like a taste test."

"Oh. Yeah, sure." He rose, extending the latke to her, watched as she took a careful bite, likewise contemplating what she was tasting.

Chewing and swallowing, she glanced up at him. "So, what's the verdict, Barnes?"

"What do you think?"

"I mean, I'm trying to recreate your mother's latke recipe. You tell me." She chuckled, removing the next round of potatoes.

Bucky hesitated. What was he supposed to say? What did she want him to say? She was here, making him dinner when he'd specifically invited her over so he could make her dinner, and now she asked him to critique her cooking. "It's close." He admitted after a moment.

Ramirez nodded in consensus. "Yeah. Your niece, Stephanie, and I tried to get Becca to write down the recipe. She followed Becca around with a set of measuring cups and spoons while Becca was making the latkes and wrote down all the pinch, dash, etc. Still not quite right. Then again, Becca said the same thing about her latkes too."

"Abby and Rachel were always the ones helping ma' with dinner. Becca always found a way _not_ to be in the kitchen when food was being made." Bucky commented distantly.

"That sounds about right." Ramirez chuckled. "So. What do I add? What do I take away?"

"I dunno." He frowned, shaking his head. "That's a pretty good base recipe. We'll have to play with it a bit. There _are_ a few more days of Hanukah left to perfect the recipe."

"Sounds good. I did bring apple sauce to eat with them, since I know that was something your nieces and nephew insisted had to be present as well. You can get it out of my bag if you'd like, but be careful. I have the buñuelos on top."

"Buñuelos?" He echoed as he rose and crossed the yard to where her bag was sitting.

"Crunchy tortillas with sugar and cinnamon." She explained quickly, as she added the final round of latkes into the pan.

"Ah." He said as he removed both containers and returned to the small table.

"Bit of a Christmas tradition for my family, something I didn't get to make this year." She commented lightly. She paused, shaking her head.

"What?" Bucky asked.

"This whole situation sounds like a bad set up to an even worse joke."

"The one-armed Jew and the Mexican-American Catholic walk into a bar?" Bucky raised an eyebrow, doing his best to ease the angry, bitter edge from his voice.

"Something like that." She nodded with a sigh, a heaviness sinking onto her shoulders. "You never did tell me if you keep kosher."

"Oh." He said shortly. "No. I don't. Why?"

"Trying to be respectful of your culture and traditions. Becca kept kosher, as did her kids. Steve and Wanda, not as much. I guess I wanted to know how bad I should feel for feeding you pork while you were with me on the ranch," She explained, starting on the roasted chicken and greens, as the last of the latkes came out of the oil.

"That." He stopped as a lump formed in his throat. "That's very kind of you, Ramirez. But regardless of if I keep kosher, there are exceptions to those rules when it comes to emergency medical situations."

_Besides, at the time, I didn't know who I was, never mind what faith I belonged to and it's particular practices._

Bucky could still only vaguely remember those first days. He'd been barely conscious, never mind human, but he did remember the green chili stew broth she'd given him. It had been the first thing he'd been able to hold down on his stomach after Hydra. Yet, it wasn't just the broth. It wasn't just the food that she'd given him to help him regain his strength. It was the trust she'd shown by allowing him around her, her clients, her volunteers, her property, and her animals. It was the fact that she was one of the first to treat him like a human, like a person since Hydra had taken him. She'd taken him in, and she'd protected him, she'd saved him.

He licked his lips, unable to formulate what he was trying to piece together. How could he express that to her? That she had prevented Hydra from finding him just long enough so he could get away. That the very reason he was Bucky Barnes and not back in a Hydra facility as the Winter Soldier again was in large part because of her bravery and willingness to help someone who frankly wasn't worth saving. It was too much to try to say.

"It's good to know regardless. However, now I know that I can make my green chili stew again without having to find pork alternatives," She shrugged.

Bucky nodded, looking her over. "Thank you. For all this. You didn't have to." It wasn't enough, it would never be enough, but it was all he could manage at the moment

"You found the two rings I'd lost, and you helped me the other week with my hand, and you bought me a shaved ice."

"You're not keeping score, are you? Because I don't think any number of shaved ices is going to balance the scales."

"Well." She answered deliberately. "I don't see it as keeping score. I see it as friends helping one another out. Yanno, being friends."

_You don't want to be my friend, Ramirez._ He wanted to say, but they'd already had that conversation, and it wasn't one that he was going to be able to win.

_Friendships are a moment by moment exercise in consent. _

But what about trust? Did she trust him? Could he trust himself? He didn't have an answer, or rather, didn't have an answer he liked at the moment.

"All right. Dinner is ready." Ramirez announced, and the task of fixing plates and settling down to eat filled the empty space between them.

Everything was delicious, and her homemade applesauce complimented the salt and spice of the rest of the meal. Once dinner had concluded, they moved in tandem to clean the dishes before Ramirez unwrapped her package of buñuelos, and he set about the task of making their customary popcorn.

Then before they could go inside his hut to start the film, Ramirez hesitated. "Are you sure you're up for watching the rest of the film?"

Was this her out? Was this her way to quietly excuse herself and avoid further contact with him?

_No. Moment by moment exercise in consent, remember?_

"Yeah. Sure."

"Okay," she said, eyeing him uncertainly. "It's just-I mean, now that I've come and tormented you with my presence and made sure you've eaten dinner, do you want me to leave you in peace? You're not obligated to spend your evening with me just because we made plans." She said.

"Tormented?" He echoed. "I wouldn't call what you did torment."

"Then what would you call it? Being patched up by a beautiful dame? That was the expression you used earlier." A playful smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, before she looked down, the slightest hint of a blush rising on the apples of her cheeks. Clearing her throat and smoothing her expression, she looked back up at him. "In all seriousness, though, I don't want to subject you to me if you'd rather be left alone."

Bucky nodded, thinking through what he wanted to say next.

If this had been an hour ago, he would've told her to leave. He would've been content to wallow, to lay on the floor and stare at the ceiling as his self-loathing and all the horrifying things he _didn't_ want to think about crowded around him and filled his brain with even worse thoughts. Earlier, when she'd asked, he hadn't even been sure he could stomach eating anything, never mind maintain enough mental and physical energy to have her around long enough to finish the movie. Yet, selfishly, he'd told her yes, stay, that he _wanted_ her to stay. He had wanted her to stay, but more out of concern for what he might do if she left, rather than for the pleasure of her company. Now, he wasn't sure what he _wanted_, or furthermore what he should _do. _Shouldn't he tell her to go home, that he wasn't good company, and that they could watch the movie some other night? Wouldn't that be the responsible thing?

However, If he was honest, he didn't want to be alone with his thoughts, selfish though it was, and so he'd ask Ramirez to stay, whether she accepted was entirely up to her.

_A moment to moment exercise in consent._

"I'd like you to stay." He said slowly. "So long as that's okay with you."

"That sounds good to me."

Bucky nodded, and they moved wordlessly into his hut, and sat down on his sleeping mat, positioning their snacks and drinks around them, before turning on the film. Dimming the lights, Bucky could feel the knot in his chest ease slightly as he felt her relax beside him in the dark. There was a certain level of familiarity and comfort to the whole thing now, watching a movie, eating snacks, in the dark with her.

He did his best to focus on the movie, but he remembered now why he'd fallen asleep twice in the theaters. It just went on too damn long. Now he found himself having a hard time focusing on what was going on. At the very least, it seemed that Ramirez was enjoying herself, although out of the corner of his eye, he could see her blinking heavily, her eyes drooping, her head bobbing in that unmistakable sign of nodding off.

"You okay?" He murmured just below the movie's audio, but loud enough that she could hear him.

"Hmmm yeah, fine." She answered, rubbing her eyes sleepily as she pulled his border tribe blanket closer to her. "My eyes are tired."

_You can go home if you want to._ He almost said it, but couldn't quite form the words.

Bucky wanted her here with him. Her presence was calming, comforting even. He found that even when his thoughts had been loud, she'd been a fixed point that could cut through all of the noise. What perhaps surprised Bucky most was that she'd been here, again, without him even having to ask, to extend the hand of friendship and pull him out of his head when he needed it most. She'd said it, multiple times and in multiple ways: friends, friendship, this is what friends do, and you don't have to do it alone.

That sentiment, that statement, the combination of action and words, that wasn't out of boredom or obligation. It couldn't be. And she certainly wasn't here because this was all a barrel of laughs. Which could only mean she was here because she knew he was having a bad day, not despite it. She was here because she saw him as a friend.

_I'm a friend, not just a way to pass the time._

He turned that thought over and over in his mind. It was the only logical conclusion for why she'd decided to show up and further had more decided to stay when he wasn't exactly the most pleasant company at the moment.

He was angry. He was moody and unbalanced. He was dangerous. What puzzled him was that Ramirez knew all of that, on an academic and practical level. She knew all of that, and yet here she was, extending the hand of friendship when he was wholly unworthy and perhaps incapable of being a good friend in return.

Bucky froze at the sensation of pressure against his right shoulder, and he looked over and down to find Ramirez slumped against him, eyes closed, breathing even, face smooth.

He opened his mouth to wake her but hesitated.

_She trusts me. She trusts me enough to fall asleep in my presence, to let her guard down so completely and totally that she was able to nod off here in the dark with me._

Bucky stayed perfectly still, watching as she adjusted her position slightly, her head and shoulder against his shoulder and arm, her hair falling from its messy bun and streaming over their shoulders. He knew he should probably wake her, but he wanted to take in this moment a little longer.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he exhaled a long, slow, shaking breath.

It had been a very long, tough day. Tomorrow would likewise be long and difficult, as well. But this, right here, with Ramirez, whatever it was, he felt like he could breathe, like a little bit of the world had lifted off his shoulders, and had dulled the pain away, if only for a little bit. This, he decided, was friendship, and he wanted it, and furthermore wanted to deserve her friendship.

Opening his eyes, he slowly moved his arm and adjusted the blanket around her shoulders as she leaned even further into him, her breathing deep and even, her expression peaceful.

And the movie played on.

* * *

A/N: I hope you all enjoyed! Comments, subscriptions, and favs are always welcome, and they certainly feed the plot bunnies! Happy Reading all!


	42. A Journey Through The Stars

Author's Note: Marvel owns what it owns, and I own what I own, let's keep it that way, shall we? Don't Sue me!

TW: for mentioned death.

Recommended Listening: Dreams by The Cranberries; Sitting in Limbo by Jimmy Clif

* * *

Chapter 42: A Journey Through The Stars

It was New Year's Eve, and it had been a few days since she'd fallen asleep during Gone With the Wind. She'd been embarrassed, but Barnes had been kind enough to wake her for the dramatic last line and had made her a cup of coffee before walking her home.

He'd insisted, of course, that he couldn't_ 'have you staggering around the Wakandan countryside half asleep in the middle of the night.'_

She'd protested feebly, but ultimately he'd prevailed and had walked her all the way home.

He'd sent her a text when he'd made it back, and that was the last time she'd heard from him. It had been radio silence, and Maggie wasn't sure if she should be concerned. She hoped he was okay, or at the very least, being kind to himself. She'd thought about reaching out to him today, considering it was the last day of Hanukah and New Year's Eve.

Maggie had been so close to texting him that she'd typed out the message and had nearly sent it before deleting the damn thing. If he wanted her around, he'd reach out to her.

_Yes, but you want him around. _

Yes. She did. But she'd decided when she'd first come to Wakanda that she was going to let Barnes set the parameters of their relationship, whatever it was, and so she'd refrain from texting or calling him.

They'd been working on drills again today. She'd tried her best to focus, but all she could think about was being thrown, and what could happen. She'd been around horses all of her life, long enough to know what exactly the worst-case scenario. Jelani had taken notice, and then taken pity, giving her the rest of the day off. She'd decided to go into town to do some shopping and walk through a few of the Royal Wakandan museums. Do anything to distract or get her out of her head.

Maggie adjusted her bag on her shoulder and sighed, trying to ease some of the tension in her chest. Her eyes darted up and down the busy streets.

_Easier said than done._

Coming into town was stressful. It was intimidating, and people starred. Not that she blamed them. She was an outsider, and her Wakandan wasn't for shit. They were kind enough to correct her pronunciation and likely overcharged her because she couldn't haggle regardless of what language she was speaking.

Even more than that, Maggie didn't like crowds, and while she knew Wakanda wasn't Juarez, there was still that edge of anxiety as she waited for something to go wrong.

She'd been on edge all week. Falling off Skywalker had done that to her. Barnes and his shitty day had actually helped distract her from what she was feeling and thinking. Not exactly the best coping mechanism, but it had done in a pinch.

But she knew she couldn't continue to rely upon Barnes's various crises to distract her from what her trauma was doing, which is why she was here in the market, buying odds and ends, and this and that. She'd even purchased herself a journal. Whether or not she'd use it was a different story, but she figured, perhaps in vain, that it was indeed the thought that counted.

On top of day time anxiety, Maggie hadn't been sleeping well, her mind occupied with well, with everything. Barnes, being thrown from the horse, memories of Juarez, memories of the house fire. It hadn't been a good time, and now she was looking for a distraction

"Funny running into you here."

Maggie whirled around to see none another than James Barnes, a few feet behind her. "Hey." She forced a quick smile. "It _is_ a funny coincidence. What are you doing here?"

"Brain checkup with the Princess." He shrugged, "What about you?"

"Oh, you know. Feeling a little stir crazy. Asked Jelani for the day off. I was just doing a little shopping. Then I was going to walk through the Royal Museum. I've heard they have an excellent Astronomy and Space exploration exhibit." She said as lightly as she could manage.

"Sounds like a full day."

"Yeah. Something like that." She nodded with a short sigh. "Everything's good with you, though, right?" Maggie winced internally at the edge in her voice. Was it too eager? Too obvious? I mean, they were talking about his brain here. That wasn't something to be dealt with lightly.

"Yes. Usual appointment." He said as if sensing her uncertainty.

"Oh. Usual appointment. That's good." She practically stammered.

_What is wrong with you? Why are you acting so weird? _She silently scolded herself.

"Yeah." Barnes agreed. "How long are you in town?"

"Oh. Well. I'm more or less done with my shopping and was going to head over to the museum here in a few minutes. How about you?"

"My appointment is in half an hour, but it shouldn't take to long."

"Would you like to join me after? It seems like it's your type of thing." Maggie rushed like if she didn't get all the words out, he might turn and leave, and she wouldn't get another chance.

"My type of thing?" He echoed.

_Shit. Had she overstepped? _Her mind raced as she examined his expression for context clues. Much to her surprise, rather than angry or reserved, he looked relaxed. His hair was pulled back in half up, half down, and he was wearing a more traditional Wakandan style shirt and pants, with his usual scarf. He was at ease. Everything about him was soft lines. "Yeah." She continued, uncertainly. "You know, science, technology. Nerd Stuff." She tossed in at the end for good measure.

"Nerd stuff." He chuckled, shaking his head. "You _have _spent too much time around Steve and Becca."

"I've spent a fair bit of time around you too, James Barnes. I can certify that you're a nerd too." She smiled again, but this time it came a little bit easier for her.

Barnes nodded, "I can meet you after. You headed over now?"

"Yeah." She replied.

"It's in the same building as the laboratory." There was a hesitance to his expression before he asked. "Do you mind if I walk with you?"

"No. Not at all. I wouldn't mind the company. Just let me pay for my stuff, and we'll be on our way." Maggie said as she removed her wallet from her bag.

Before she could turn to the shop keeper, Barnes had slipped between them and was talking in quick Wakandan, negotiating the price, before he slid the appropriate coinage across the counter.

"Barnes. You didn't have to do that." Maggie stammered, collecting her things as they started walking.

"No." He agreed, nodding. "I didn't."

"But?" Maggie led.

At this again, he paused, "I never did say thank you. For helping me the other day."

"Of course. I meant to ask, how's your hand and arm?"

"Good. They're good."

"I'm glad to hear."

"You didn't have to do that, you know." He continued after a moment.

"Do what?"

"Patching me up, yet again."

"I wasn't just going to stand there and watch you bleed."

"I mean," He began again, haltingly. "I wouldn't have been able to clean and dress my wound if you hadn't been there." He admitted.

_Ah. _Maggie nodded. She knew he was fishing, that he was looking for some sort of reaction. She wasn't sure what she was feeling, never mind what he was expecting her to say. But he did expect some kind of reaction. He'd expected some kind of reaction when they'd been at the falls, and then she was reasonably sure he'd expected her to coddle him when he'd cut himself.

She really didn't know what he wanted her to say. He hadn't her given her much to go on if he did. 'Let him set the parameters of the relationship,' that's what she'd told herself, and so if he wanted to talk about it, he'd have to do more than just drop hints.

"You're resourceful. I have no doubt you would've figured something out, James Barnes." She managed finally.

There was a pause as he looked her over. "You know that you can just call me Bucky if you'd like, doll."

He tensed as soon as he'd said it, and she couldn't help but smile. "If I do, will you stop calling me doll?" She laughed. "You can call me Maggie if you like, although it doesn't have the same ring."

"Now you're just making fun of me."

"Come on, Barnes, this is the 21st century!"

"What does that have to do with anything?"

Maggie opened her mouth but found that a blush had started to rise on her cheeks. _Women like a man who doesn't take himself too seriously._ Is what she was going to say. And she had no reason why she shouldn't, but the way Barnes was looking at her, combined with the rising blush, she found that she couldn't quite form the words.

"Is this about how the nature of women and men has changed since I've been out of the world?" he asked, raising a playfully skeptical eyebrow.

"No." She shook her head. "No. I was simply going to say, don't take yourself too seriously."

"Uh, huh."

"What?"

"You weren't actually going to say that, were you?"

Was the lie that obvious? She couldn't quite tell, but now she had to either lie some more or find a way to say what she was going to say. "No," Maggie said slowly. "I was, frankly, getting ready to be quite heteronormative, and I was a little embarrassed at myself."

"Ah," he answered shortly. "Well, now, I'm curious."

She took a deep breath but was cut off before she could answer. "You don't have to say it, if you don't want to, Ramirez."

Maggie glanced up at him. There was a faint hint of a satisfied smile on his face. Not that he was mocking her per-say, but that he was thoroughly enjoying this entire exchange, which by all accounts, was a good thing. "Don't you mean doll?"

"Would you prefer that over Ramirez?"

"As I said, Maggie is perfectly fine."

"All right, all right. _Maggie._" He said, pronouncing her name first name with care, as if afraid if it was mishandled, it might break.

Much to her embarrassment, her stomach fluttered. She chewed on the corner of her mouth, trying to clamp the feeling down, she charged on, "It's the 21st century Barnes, women like a man who doesn't take himself too seriously."

A thoughtful expression crossed over his face, and he nodded. "Not the _most_ heteronormative thing I've ever heard." He chuckled. "Does it apply to men as well? Do men like men who don't take themselves too seriously? Or women for that matter?"

Maggie exhaled slightly, adjusting her bag again. "Well, as far as men liking men is concerned, you'd have to ask Steve or Sam about all of that."

"It _is_ good to know how men and women fit into the equation in this _modern _world of yours." He said with not too much sarcasm.

"Modern world of _mine_?" She echoed. "I don't think I can take _that _much credit for things."

"Well, you _are_ a millennial."

"Oh. Getting into some generational warfare are we, Bucky Barnes?" She raised an eyebrow. "And how, dare I ask, are we doing, seeing as you're the poster boy of The Greatest Generation."

"Me?" Bucky snorted, shaking his head. "You're talking to the wrong person." He paused as they reached the lobby of the massive Royal Laboratory, stopping outside the doors. He glanced around before leveling his watchful gaze. "But I think if you were to ask Steve. I think he'd say that you kids are doing all right."

"But I didn't ask Steve, did I?" Now she knew she was being coy, but she wanted to hear what he had to say. Particularly as a representative of the so-called "greatest generation."

"No." He agreed. "But unfortunately, I have an appointment to get to."

"Right. You do." She nodded, doing her best to quell her disappointment, but he wasn't wrong. He did have his appointment to get to. "Meet you down here in an hour?"

"Sure. I'll see you then!"

"Good luck!"

Bucky paused, surveying her, an odd expression passing only momentarily over his face. "Thanks. You too."

Maggie watched as he walked to the lift that would take him to the laboratory. _You can call me Bucky if you'd like, doll._

She couldn't help but smile as she glanced down at the fabric he'd bought for her. She'd have to make him something out of the scraps if there was anything left after she made a dress for herself.

What the afternoon held in store for her, for them, she didn't know, but she was glad. Glad he was here, glad that she wasn't alone, that she and _Bucky_ were together, here, now.

* * *

It had been a strange day already, and Bucky felt slightly lightheaded as he entered the laboratory where the Princess was waiting for him.

"Hey, White boy! Right on time." She called playfully. "You know the drill, up on the table." They moved in silent unison in their familiar routine.

The Princess started the scan as usual, and he could feel his mind raced. It had been a surprise running into Ramirez...Maggie. He hadn't seen her since they'd watched 'Gone With the Wind.' He'd wanted to reach out, wanted to ask her over for dinner again. He'd perfected his latke recipe in the meantime, and he owed her dinner—a real dinner, one that didn't involve her patching him up.

When he'd seen her today, in the market, she'd looked...well upset wasn't quite the right word for it, but there was an edge to her. But she had laughed and smiled at him and had seemed perfectly cordial. _Seemed_, of course, being the operative word. What had happened since the last time they'd seen each other? Had he done something to upset her? He hadn't _seen_ her. How could he have upset her?

She _had_ invited him to go to the museum with him. She'd been under no obligation to do that. So it was logical that she _wanted_ him around. Right?

"So any plans for tonight?"

"Pardon?" He stammered, glancing up at her through the holographic displays as she worked.

"It's the News Years, and I believe the last day of Hanukkah for you. Any big plans?"

"Oh. Magg-Ramirez and I are going to the Wakandan Royal Museum this afternoon." Bucky answered truthfully. Silently kicking himself for tripping up and almost using her first name, which would likely lead to merciless teasing from the Princess.

"Again?" The Princess asked.

"Yes. _Again._" Bucky winced. He hadn't mentioned it to Maggie, but he'd first been to the museum shortly after he'd been pulled from cryo. He'd sort of wandered into the museum in between the various scans and tests. He'd spent hours going through the museum that first day, and since then, he'd been back two or three times, usually just after his scans.

"I take it, Ms. Ramirez doesn't know?" The Princess commented, a knowing tone in her voice.

"She didn't ask."

"Did you invite her, or did she invite you?"

"Does it matter?"

"Well, certainly, it would determine whether or not it's a date."

Bucky rolled his eyes, shaking his head. "No. It's not a date."

"So. She asked you." The Princess practically giggled. "It's good. You two spending time together. Social interaction, it's good for you. What does she like?"

"What do you mean?"

"It means what it means, what does she like? What are you two going to see in our museum today?"

Bucky had to stop himself from sighing. Of course. Of course, the Princess was going to get involved. _I shouldn't have mentioned anything._ But there wasn't any shame in it, in them spending time together. He enjoyed her company. So he trudged on. "I think she wanted to see the Astronomy and Space exploration exhibits."

"You'll have to take her into the planetarium."

Bucky paused, thinking back to that time that he'd found her in the field. She'd talked about being unable to sleep and wanting to stargaze. "Yeah. I think she'd like that." He hesitated, licking his lips. "Does the planetarium...does it have a set...program?" He asked slowly.

"No. Why?" She leaned into his field of vision just enough to where he could see her forehead and eyes.

Bucky sighed, rolling his eyes, bobbing his head in a conciliatory gesture. "She mentioned that she liked stargazing." He said shortly, leaving out how he'd gathered that information.

In his defense, that had been purely accidental and hadn't happened again. Although he would be a liar if he didn't admit, at least to himself, that the thought had occurred to him to walk over one of his many sleepless nights to see if he'd find her out there again.

A huge grin spread over The Princess's face.

"Why do I feel like I've missed something?" He asked uncertainly.

"Not at all. I'll have to give you the override code, so Ms. Ramirez can stargaze wherever her heart desires," She said, her hands manipulating the holographic readout. "Your brain looks good, White boy. I'll have you out of here in a moment so you can get to your date with Magdalene."

_Not a date. _He would've quipped back, but he knew that she was playing the role of the younger sibling _spectacularly, _and any response on his part would only provide fuel to that particular fire.

Instead, he just listened as she started humming something that vaguely resembled a Disney song.

The Princess finished up her work, gave him the override, and sent him on his way. His mind was still spinning. He was still concerned about her, and now The Princess had put it into his head that what they were doing was considered a "date." They were acquaintances, friends, if even. It wasn't a date. They were just spending time together doing something they both enjoyed. _Oh, shi-_

"Hey, Bucky!" Ramirez's voice interrupted his thoughts, and he found her sitting on a bench outside the main entrance to the museum waving him over, the museum map spread across her lap.

"You didn't wait on me, did you?" He asked as he approached.

"Oh. No. I went through most of the history wing. I figured I'd come out here and wait for you, so you didn't have to track me down." She said, standing up and adjusting the strap to her bag. "Good appointment?"

"Yeah. Everything looks good."

"Wrinkly and fatty?" She inquired with a quick smile.

"So far as I'm aware."

"Good good. So, where do you wanna start?"

"Pardon?"

"Well, as you're the science nerd between the two of us."

"Thanks for that," He snorted.

"Come on, Barnes. You spent your last night stateside at a science expo. That's absolutely prime nerd activity."

"Okay, yes, what's your point? Other than making fun of me."

"I'm _not_ making fun. I'm just curious. What bit's your favorite? So I know where we should start in the science and technology wing. So come on science nerd, what's your favorite?" She laughed.

"Technological innovations and engineering." He said shortly.

"Awesome. Sounds good. It's right near the front of that wing anyway." Ram-Maggie said. "Shall we?"

"After you."

They walked side by side through a few of the exhibits before she spoke again. "So why technology and engineering?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, what sparks your interest?"

"Oh. Umm. I mean. What isn't interesting about computers, flying cars, electric machines to wash and dry your clothes for you or do the dishes? I always wanted to figure out how they worked and how such technology could make our lives better."

He winced as he heard the sickening sincerity in his voice. He believed it, and he meant it. It just sounded so very naive, and he braced himself, waiting for her to laugh at him.

Instead, she just nodded thoughtfully, "That makes sense to me."

"It does?" His disbelief was palpable.

"Well, sure. Better living through technology. Certainly, a product of the era you were born and raised. In the same way that I came of age where we were all fairly convinced that technology was going to destroy us all."

_You're welcome for that._ He would've said had he felt up to it. It had been rattling around in his brain since she'd asked how he'd thought her generation was doing as the "poster boy" for the greatest generation. If he was the "poster boy" for the Greatest Generation, then it was a pretty damning indictment of what his generation has accomplished. After all, he'd shaped the century, as Pierce had so often remarked. He'd murdered, infiltrated, assassinated, and sabotaged to create the conditions for the Cold War, its proxy wars, and much much more.

"You all right there, Barnes?" Ramirez asked.

"Yeah. Got lost in my head a bit." He managed, lamely. "What about you?"

"What about me?"

"You enjoy walking around museums all day. I'd say that qualifies you as a bit of a nerd."

"Oh. No. Absolutely. Although, I'm far less interested in what could be loosely classified as the 'hard sciences.' I enjoy my social sciences and humanities. I like figuring out how people work."

"Hence your fascination with me?" He commented, perhaps a little more unkindly than he'd intended.

To her credit, she shook her head and snorted. "No, Bucky Barnes, believe it or not, I enjoy your company. You're not one of my social science projects, and I'm very glad about that."

"Why's that?"

She looked up at him, her brow wrinkled in confusion. "I'd much rather have you as a friend than a client."

"Oh."

Ramirez...Maggie smiled before returning her attention to the next exhibit as they entered the medical technology and innovations wing.

They walked through in silence, reading each of the little cards, which had been conveniently translated into a number of languages. Bucky could feel his heart pounding in his throat as they approached a case of prosthetic limbs. He and the Princess had sat and talked multiple times in front of that case. Talked about his options, talked about _all_ that Wakandan technology could do for him, talked about the inevitable. Dread set in as she moved closer to the case, her brows furrowed, and focused on one of the artifacts, an impressive articulating prosthesis from the 18th century, made of steel and vibranium.

_Here we go. She's going to ask. _He wasn't entirely quite sure if he wanted her to ask about his prosthesis (and lack thereof) or not, or if it was just the anticipation of her asking was what was putting him entirely on edge.

"Hmm." She murmured more to herself than the room at large. "Better living through technology." She muttered before looking back down at the map of the exhibit halls.

No questions came.

_Say something. Why won't you say something? _

He wanted her to ask, wanted her to say something. It would relieve the pressure, relieve the unknown. The silence grew and swelled and expanded between them until it rose like a buzzing in his ears, crackling with energy until it neared a deafening roar. "You haven't asked." He blurted out.

"Asked what?"

What did she mean asked what? Bucky couldn't believe it. How did she not know what he was talking about? But he was the one who wanted answers, and so he pressed onward. "Why the Wakandans haven't given me a new one." He said, hoping to clarify things a bit.

"Oh." She said shortly, as she turned to face him. "No. I guess I haven't." There was a hesitance in her voice before she continued. "I figured you had your reasons, but that it really wasn't any of my business."

"But you must be curious." He continued as they moved to the next display. "After everything you've seen and heard, and read...well?" Bucky felt stupid as he spoke, but he needed to know.

"Well. I guess I should say this upfront." She said, picking out her words deliberately. "I'm not ignoring your disability. I'm trying to give you the space and dignity of deciding when and how you want or need accommodation, or when and how you want to talk about...well, everything. You don't need me, or anyone else, for that matter ogling or asking invasive and tremendously personal questions just because you're very clearly missing a limb."

"So, you do have questions."

"Well. Yes."

_But you're going to let me talk about it when I wanna talk about it. _

It only made sense, considering her background. "I forget you're a therapist."

"Well, these days, I'm mostly a beautiful dame. I do my best to keep my therapist voice out of it. It's not what you signed up for."

No. It wasn't. But it still surprised him how she approached things, how she was doing her best not to ogle or make him uncomfortable. "So, what do you want to know?" He was going to push her. Just a bit. Not because he could, but because he wanted to know what she thought, what she thought of all of it. After all, she had spent two years researching him.

"What do you want to share with me?"

Yet again, she was going to let him guide the discussion. He'd just assumed she had a laundry list of questions. Bucky paused, licking his lips.

What did he want to share?

"You were right about nearly all of it. You knew more than I certainly ever did while I was with Hydra." He admitted slowly. "You asked me about feeling in the prosthesis. Back on your ranch."

"Yeah." She nodded, urging him on.

"It wasn't sensation, per-say. It was more like _knowing _where it was, what it was doing, how much pressure was being exerted, size shape, weight, rather than texture or temperature."

Ramirez...Maggie nodded. "How'd my repair hold up?"

"Good, it was good." _Up until the moment Stark blew the arm off. _He didn't say it. "The stab wound healed up nicely as well. No infection or problems."

"That's good. I'm glad." She hesitated.

_Ahh, okay, here it comes. _

"How are your pain levels now that you aren't dragging that _thing_ around?" She practically spat.

The anger and bitterness she said it with him took him aback. She knew what they'd done to him. She'd seen it in Hydra's files. He knew that she knew, and now knowing what he knew about her, it shouldn't surprise him that she'd be angry about _that_ particular detail of his medical history. And yet the vitriol she'd compressed into a single syllable was shocking.

_Of all the things to ask, all the personal, probing questions, she asks about my pain level. _It was

"Better. Much better." He answered, honestly. "Whatever they did to me gave me back and shoulder problems, but now that the weight isn't there anymore, it hurts far less."

She winced, but nodded, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Good. That's really all that matters."

Bucky hesitated, "you didn't tell Steve or Romanoff about what you found, did you? Medically I mean."

"I didn't. It felt invasive and not at all related to trying to find you. I wrote out what I knew so you'd know, but I figured you'd tell Steve, Nat, or whoever what you wanted them to know when you had a chance to make that decision for yourself." She paused, glancing up at him. "Plus, between you and me, Steve was looking like a kicked puppy as it was. I didn't want to personally contribute to any of that."

Bucky nodded, "Yeah, _that_ makes sense."

"Why? What happened?" She asked, her eyes searching his expression.

"He uhhh, had some particular prosthesis related questions, shortly after Stark blew it off," He admitted, feeling as if he was snitching on the other man. Still, she'd asked a completely fair and honest question, and so he'd give her an equally straightforward answer.

"Oh. Sorry. I guess I should've given him the talk." Ramirez admitted sheepishly.

"The talk?" He echoed.

"Yeah, The talk. That it's generally not polite to ask how you lost it, did it hurt, and are you getting another one. It's a lot like asking veterans if they'd killed anyone."

"Yeah. _That's _a stupid question."

"Yeah, it is." She nodded, trailing off as she glanced back toward the case. "Better living through technology." She scoffed, shaking her head. "I saw some of what they did to you, and I can only imagine the type of pain you were in hauling that horrible piece of tech around with you. After all that, I imagine you have a variety of reasons to not _want_ a prosthesis." Ram-Maggie glanced up at him. "But it's none of my business to ask, nor are you obligated, required, or expected to give me, Steve, or anyone else your reasoning. In the same way that you're not obligated, required, or expected to explain why you might want one again. But, as I said before, I'm not ignoring your disability. I _am _aware you're missing a limb and that it wasn't a particularly pleasant situation for you _either_ time. I just want to give you the dignity of choice."

_Choice._ He could feel a lump form in his throat at the very idea. _Choice. _"Thank you...Thank you, Maggie." He managed after a moment.

_For what? _She was going to say.

"It really is you I should be thanking, Bucky Barnes."

"For what?" He spluttered before he could stop himself.

"You've been incredibly gracious and forgiving when you really have no reason to be as far as how much information I have on you rattling around in my head. Never mind in relation to what I did, or a didn't share with your various significant others."

He hesitated. Had he been gracious and forgiving? He'd sort of resigned himself to the fact that there were people out there who knew more about him and what had happened to him than he did. The fact that Ramirez...Maggie had been conscientious about how his information had been collected, stored, and disseminated had been surprising, and he hadn't given it much thought this way or that.

"You did the best you could in a shitty situation and were very thoughtful in how you tried to regulate and protect my information. That's really all I could ask."

She nodded shyly. "I do my best."

But her best, Bucky couldn't help but observe, was far and away better than any of them would've managed. She'd carried all that information around in her head and hadn't told anyone else. Furthermore, she'd handed over all that information the moment they'd come into proximity and had given him complete and total control of the ways that they discussed that information. He wasn't sure he could exercise the same amount of self-control, or that he was deserving of such a display of kind thoughtfulness after everything that had happened to her because of him.

"Are we ready to go to the next exhibit?" She asked brightly.

"Yeah." He nodded. "Can I see the map?"

"Sure." She said, their fingertips brushing as she passed it to him.

They made eye contact a moment, and Maggie cracked a small smile, the tips of her ears going pink. "Thanks," He mumbled as he broke her gaze and looked down at the paper map. It was all a show, of course, he knew what he was looking for, but he couldn't tell her that.

"No problem." She cleared her throat. "So what are you thinking? I'm open to anything, now that we've gotten through most of the Wakandan technology and engineering." She commented as she craned her neck to look over his shoulder at the map.

"The Princess mentioned a planetarium," Bucky answered his eyes, scanning the now very crumpled paper.

"Oh. Yeah. I was looking for that." She said brightly.

"Would you like to go there next?" He glanced up at her.

"Yeah. Sure. I mean. I mean, if you want." Maggie stammered.

"Then let's go." He mentioned with his head.

"Okay." She nodded, "I follow your lead."

"That could be dangerous." He commented wryly as they started the winding path through the museum. "I could step on your toes."

Maggie chuckled. "Well, luckily for you, I'm wearing boots."

"Well, with any luck, that won't be necessary." He commented as they came to the planetarium. Grabbing the door, he held it open for her and filed in after. Blinking as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he watched her closely as they entered the darkened space, her face tilting upward, expression transforming in wonder.

She sighed, almost wistfully, releasing the tension in her shoulders.

It was a remarkable change. Watching as she walked into the center of the room, Bucky couldn't help but notice the smile that spread across her face. "We can change the coordinates if you'd like." He said in low tones after a moment, almost sad to break the silence and draw her attention away from the display above.

Her head snapped to where he was standing, eyes wide. "Really? I mean, you think they'd let us?"

"The Princess gave me the access code to the controls. So I'm pretty sure." He said.

"I mean. If you don't mind."

"Not at all." Bucky shook his head.

Without further prompting, she bounded over to the controls, turning to watch as he trailed behind. He typed in the authorization and stepped aside so she could type in the new coordinates. Glancing up, he watched as the stars shifted, before watching as she drifted to the center of the room, her neck craned, looking up.

Standing there a moment, she sunk to the floor, a grin spread across her lips and her pure delight filling every inch of her face. "Join me?" She asked, turning her head only momentarily to meet his gaze.

"Sure." He replied, walking over to where she was sitting and sat down to her left, and watched as she leaned back on the floor, her face illuminated in the dim light of the display.

"Do you know them?" He asked, watching as she gazed upward.

"Some." She answered, eyes scanning the fake night sky. "There." She pointed. "That's Ursa Major."

Bucky followed where she was pointing. "I don't see it." He said, squinting.

"You're going to have to layback to see where I'm pointing."

He looked down at her, his brain working to come up with some sort of witty comeback, but faltered at the earnest expression on her face. "Alright," Bucky said, as he lay down on the floor beside her, shoulder to shoulder. "Show me."

"There." She motioned with her pointer finger. "That cluster of stars. That's the Ursa Major."

"Uh, Huh." Bucky nodded.

"And then there is Leo Minor and Leo major." She made a motion with her pointer finger.

"Right."

Maggie glanced over at him, "You still have no idea what I'm talking about." It was an absolute statement of fact.

"Correct."

"You mean to tell me that you've never star gazed, James Barnes?" She asked, total disbelief in her voice.

"Can't say that I have." He paused.

_Liar. _

He'd star gazed with Steve when they were out in the field with the howling commandos, too wired to sleep. So they'd just held hands and watched the night sky, ears trained for the enemy. Then there had also been a few times he could remember, when he was the Soldier, looking up at the sky on clear moonless nights with Nat while on a mission, where they'd been taken, if only momentarily, by the beauty of the night sky. It had been a very long time since he'd just looked up at the sky just to look up.

"I know the North Star. But that was mostly for navigation, in the era before GPS and satellites."

She gave a small nod, "Give me your hand. " She said so softly that Bucky was almost sure that he'd imagined it.

"What?" He stammered.

"I wanna show you." Maggie motioned with her chin up toward the ceiling.

"All right." He extended his hand to her.

Gently she wrapped her thumb, middle, ring, and pinky finger around his right wrist, doing her best to align her pointer finger with his, "All right, bear with me a moment." She said, adjusting her position where she was pressed flush against him. "Comfortable?" She looked over at him with a small smile.

"As much as anyone can be laying on the ground." He answered with a wry smile.

"Okay. Well. Let me show you." She chuckled, the noise was small but hummed in her chest, and the vibrations spread into his own.

Clearing her throat, she began, using their pointer fingers like a gun sight and very carefully traced each constellation in the hemisphere, only pausing to ask if he could see it, or if he had questions. Bucky could, of course, see each of the constellations, but he found he was far more interested in how her face seemed to positively glow as she spoke in the dim light, talking about what each star formation was and what time of the year they could be best seen.

"What?"

"Huh?" He stammered, her voice pulling him back.

"You're starring. Where did I lose you?" She asked.

"Oh. No. You didn't." He shook his head. "It's just." He faltered.

"What?"

"How do you know all this stuff?"

"Oh." She breathed as if relived that was his question. "West Texas is nothing but flat and dry, which means a lot of open sky. That and my family used to go out to the McDonald's observatory in the Davis Mountains when I was little. My brother loved it. He'd drag me out of bed in the early hours of dawn to watch meteor showers."

"Your brother Antonio."

"Yeah, Toni." She nodded. "Before Toni died, we used to go camping for two weeks every Christmas break and just sit out under the stars by the fire. Toni knew all the constellations and where the planets were depending on the time of year." Ramirez shook her head. "God, it's been forever since I've thought about those camping trips."

Her brother, during his research, Bucky, had read that he'd died when she was ten. He'd never figured out what had happened, but he could imagine it had been traumatic. Bucky could tell just by how she talked about him the admiration and love that she still felt for him, all these years later. Was that how Becca had talked about him? "What happened to him?" The question slipped out before he could stop it, and he winced.

"It's okay. It was a long time ago." She said slowly. "He was killed in a freak accident. Trying to break a horse," She said. It was all fact, not a hint of emotion in her voice. "He was seventeen and my hero, I guess in the way big brothers normally are. Now that I think back on it, he never should've been allowed to get up on that horse, but my dad and granddad thought he was ready and so they let him. I was sitting by the fence, watching when it happened. The horse threw him, and when he hit the ground..." Maggie winced, shaking her head. "I knew immediately what had happened. I tried to get into the enclosure, but my Aunt Gloria dragged me into the house. They were trying to protect me. They didn't want me to see the body. But I just remember screaming Toni's name." She paused, trying to swallow the lump in her throat. "The other day, when I was thrown, it brought what happened to Toni back. After that happened to him, I didn't go near horses or any of it for years." She chuckled weakly. "So. Uhh. I can positively say that neither of us was having a good day the other day."

"Yeah. I think that's an accurate summary." Bucky nodded, silently astounded.

_She trusts me._ He realized. She trusted him not only not to hurt her as they lay there in the dark but also enough to tell him something that had obviously been and was still in many ways very painful for her.

Bucky paused, glancing down, he found that she was still holding onto his wrist. She didn't have a tight grip. He could've easily pulled away. What surprised him was that he didn't mind and was actually savoring the contact between them. Her hand was callused, but her grip was gentle. Did she realize she was still holding onto his wrist? Or had his question taken her far beyond the fake night sky.

"I think we should do a re-do."

"Re-do?" She echoed.

"Well, you said it yourself. Neither of us was having a good day last time we had dinner and a movie. Tonight is the last night of Hanukkah, and by my count, New Year's Eve. If you don't have any other plans, I'd like to make dinner for you."

Maggie turned her head to him, cracking a small, nearly fragile smile. "I'd like that, Bucky."

Bucky looked back up at the ceiling and the starry scene swirling over him. A year ago, he'd been in Romania, hauling cinderblocks up the stairs. A year ago, he'd discovered she was alive when he'd seen her in the photograph in his youngest sister's obituary. A year ago, he was on the run, alone, and in pain, and had been content to be so. He'd had no idea what awaited him, or what he was going to endure. In a thousand years, he never would've imagined he would be laying side by side with the woman whose life he'd so completely and utterly ruined, stargazing and talking about having dinner.

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. It was inappropriate and stupid, and she'd probably roll her eyes at him, but it was to good an opportunity to pass up. "Well then," He said slowly, turning his head to meet her gaze. "Here's looking at you, kid."

Sure enough, she rolled her eyes, pulling her hand away to brush hair out of her face, but her smile widened as she shook her head. "You're a cheeseball, Barnes." Maggie chuckled as she pushed herself into a seated position. "But thank you."

"For being a cheeseball?" He raised an eyebrow as he sat up beside her.

"Getting the access codes from The Princess. Listening to me ramble on about my childhood, my dead brother, and the stars." She replied.

Bucky paused. "For being a friend?" He offered after a moment.

"Yeah. For being my friend." She agreed. "Now come on. We have the rest of the museum to see, and items for dinner to acquire." She rose to her feet and extended her hand to him.

He took it, and she helped him to his feet. They changed the coordinates back and left the planetarium in silence. Following her blinking out into the comparatively bright light of the museum, Bucky trailed behind her as she led them from room to room, chatting excitedly about each of the exhibits.

If this was a sign of things to come, and Bucky hoped they were, 2017 was going to be a much better year than 2016. T_hat_ was something to celebrate, and he was going to celebrate it with a friend. He was going to celebrate with her.

* * *

A/N: I hope you all enjoyed this chapter. Thanks to those of you who are leaving reviews, it really means a lot, and I appreciate hearing how the story makes you feel/impacts you!

Until next time! Happy Reading!


	43. Bad Dreams and Worse Realities

Author's Note: Marvel owns what it owns, and I own what I own, let's keep it that way, shall we?

OKAY Y'ALL. Massive trigger warning: graphic violence, death, blood, murder, gun violence, dream sequence, PTSD, Anxiety, depression, self-isolation

Recommended Listening: The Manic by Amarante; Hallelujah by Rufus Wainwright

* * *

Chapter 43: Bad Dreams and Worse Realities

_He couldn't hear the words, but he knew they were those words. He could feel himself being pushed away and being replaced by something else, by the soldier. He tried to hold on, tried to fight it. "Your name is James Barnes. Your father's name is George. Your mother's name...your mother's name is..." The information was there, but it was blocked, shoved away, useless, obsolete._

_"_ _Soldier?"_

_"_ _Ready to comply." He heard himself say the words, but it felt far away and warbled like he was underwater, trapped, drowning._

_He was in the house again, Maggie's house. They were alone. Her dark eyes were wide with terror, an unfamiliar, foreign expression on her usually calm features. "Bucky...Bucky, this isn't you." She said, her voice shaking, her hands out as she backed away from him. It was a feeble attempt at self-defense, certainly no match for the soldier…for the asset._

_He raised his gun. 'Run! Run!' He wanted to scream, but he couldn't. _

_It wouldn't have helped. Maggie didn't_ _'t have time to react. No time to scream, no time to run, no time to plead or beg as he unloaded the magazine into her chest, and as she crumpled to the floor, blood pooling around her. Her shaking hands moved to the bullet wounds, which blossomed like bright flowers, and attempted to staunch the bleeding. But it would be no use, not against the solider, not when there were so many of them._

_He...the soldier...stepped forward, placing his boot on her chest, forcing her all the way to the floor._

_Maggie put her blood-stained hands on the boot and pushed ineffectually against it, too weak to put up much of a fight. Bucky wanted to look away, wanted to stop, but he couldn't. He watched, unable to stop the horror of what was happening. _

_Her eyes stared up at him. There wasn't anger or even fear in her eyes, but an overwhelming sadness. Then, just as he raised his gun, he found that he could move again. _

_"Maggie." His voice was his own now, but nearly drowned out by the thudding of his pulse in his ears."Maggie. Oh, God. Maggie, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." He fell to his knees beside her, scooping up her in his arms, trying to stem the bleeding, but there was blood everywhere. There was no way to stop it. _

_"_ _It's okay, Bucky," She said, her hands slick with blood pushed his hand away."It's okay, let me go. It's okay."_

_"_ _Maggie. No. No. Please." He begged, his voice no more than a hoarse whisper. He cradled her head, watching helplessly as she slipped away, only vaguely aware of the tears streaming down his face._

_"_ _You killed her, Barnes." _

_He looked up to see Wilson walking toward him. "After all she did for you."_

_"Wilson...I..." Words failed him as the shadow of Steve loomed over them. "Steve...I...I tried to stop..." Bucky looked up into the face of his friend and found anger on Steve's face._

_"_ _You said you weren't going to kill anyone."_

_"_ _I didn't mean—I couldn't."_

_"_ _Who am I talking to? My friend? Or the Winter Soldier?" Steve stepped closer, "You did this! You killed her!"_

_"_ _You killed her," Wilson repeated._

_He looked down into Maggie's face_ _as their voices echoed and bounced around the room, and mixed with the screams of all of the Winter Soldier's victims. His victims. _

_'No. It wasn't me. I didn't want to.' He would've screamed, but no one would listen, and he didn't deserve their pity, their justice, their forgiveness._

_ No._

_ No. _

_No._

Bucky jolted awake, drenched in sweat, breathing heavy, whole body shaking.

"You're in Wakanda. You're safe. They can't touch you. You're safe. Maggie's safe. Steve and Wilson, and Natasha, they're safe. Hydra can't make you them kill. Hydra can't make you hurt anyone. Hydra can't hurt you anymore." He breathed, trying to ground himself.

He squeezed his eyes shut as the hut's walls started to spin. He could hear their screams, their pleading. He could see their faces reaching out to him from the darkness behind his eyes. He clenched his jaw as his chest constricted.

He sucked in a breath, but the air was warm and stale as the walls moved closer in around him.

Coughing, he staggered to his feet and lurched outside into the night.

_I couldn't stop it. I was there, I was in there, and I couldn't stop it. _He could feel his whole body shaking.

He'd killed her, he'd killed her, and he hadn't been able to stop it.

"The Princess got the programming out, she got it out, she got it all out, they can't touch you." He whispered over and over.

_But what if she hadn't. What if she hadn't, and they come for you. They'll come for you and trigger you again, they'll make you kill her and Steve and Sam and T'Challa and The Princess and anyone and everyone who might stand in their way, and you won't be able to stop it._

Bucky could feel himself shaking as his thoughts raced. Both his body and his mind were working against him. He needed to move, needed to get out of his head.

He started walking. He walked and walked, not really minding where he was going, letting his feet guide him, his mind still racing.

_It was only a dream._

He repeated that fact, repeated it over and over, hoping that with enough repetition, it might feel like it was _only_ a dream.

It had felt real. For him, it had felt real, too real. Because for 70 years, it had been real. That had been his job, his mission, his entire purpose. He'd killed people, a _lot _of people, not just like that but close enough. Too close for comfort.

"Fuck." He breathed.

He remembered them all; he could see them all; only now Maggie was among them.

That wasn't new. He'd lived in the belief that he'd killed her for over a year. And when he'd been remembering, recovering everything that he'd lost and forgotten, she'd been amongst the fallen, amongst those killed by Hydra, killed by him.

But then she hadn't been dead, and in fact, had been trying to hunt him down. And then she'd come to Wakanda and had told him that she didn't blame him for what had happened. It hadn't been absolution. It had been understanding.

Only then they'd started talking about his sister, and then spending time with one another. Now it had evolved into something else. It had evolved into a friendship. It had become something normal, something constant, something separate from what his life _had _been to something that his life _could _be.

It had been nearly a month and a half since the museum and New Year's Eve, and during that time, they'd been seen a lot more of one another.

They'd zoomed through the next twenty films on the hundred greatest list, slipping in a few films here and there not from the list. Science fiction mostly, but it had been fun for him to see her suggestions and input. Beyond just seeing more of one another, she'd been staying the night on their movie nights. It just made the most sense for her to stay until morning to avoid anyone having to walk in the dark.

Unfortunately, while a lot had been good, with it had come some bad. This dream wasn't the first time of its particular kind. He'd started having them around the same time that she'd started staying over.

At first, the dreams had focused around him frightening or even accidentally harming her. He hadn't told her. He'd wanted to. But to what end? He'd wondered. Then there had been an escalation...to…well…to this.

How could he have been so stupid? How had he managed to delude himself into thinking that this whole thing wouldn't come back and bite him in the ass? Was it ignorance, naivety, stupidity, or had he really thought that he could ignore what he was? That he should _let_ her ignore what he was. Ignore the truth that he was not just dangerous but a danger to her.

Bucky faltered as his brain finally realized where his feet had led him.

"Damn it." He muttered. He was no more than 100 yards from her front door.

His feet had guided him along to her house, as they had now almost three years ago. Right to her doorstep, to dump his problems on her.

_You're already here. What's a little further? _His brain coaxed, and he wanted to listen. _She'd want to know about this. She has a right to know._

He wanted to go up and knock on her door. He wanted to wake her, just to know she was okay. If just to hear her voice.

What would he say when he did he wake her? 'Hi, sorry, had a bad dream about brutally murdering you in your home. You know the one that Hydra burned to the ground after they tortured you for harboring me in your barn and nursing me back to health?'

It wouldn't be a welcome wake up call.

_It was only a dream._

He clung to the fact. It wasn't real. The whole thing had been his brain doing stupid shit to him. Yet despite that knowledge, for him, it had felt real, so real. He'd watched her die.

_She would want to know._

Yeah, she would. She'd sit there and listen and nod along with those large dark eyes, and that kind mouth and gentle expression, and she'd tell him what he already knew. It was only a dream. It was just a dream and that it wasn't anything to worry too terribly much about. Then she'd spread a blanket out for them and would lay beside him until he fell back asleep under the night sky.

That's what would happen. He knew that and wanted that. In fact, he craved it down to the very fiber of his being.

_No. You can't do that to her. You know what you have to do. _

Would she see it that way? Would she understand?

_Does it matter?_

Well, of course, it mattered. Despite himself, despite all better judgment, and all good reason, he cared for Maggie, and he cared what she thought, and he didn't want to _hurt _her.

_Fuck. Damn it. _He took a faltering step toward her house and stopped. _I can't do this to her, not right now, not at this hour. _He turned and rubbed his face before turning back toward her hut—his resolve wavering moment to moment, breath to breath.

It was Tuesday, or it was going to be. He could do it during his usual feed delivery. He was supposed to see her then anyway. It would be better than waking her up in the middle of the night, and it gave him more time to figure out what he was going to say.

But he wanted to talk to her now. It wouldn't make everything better. Nothing could make everything feel _better,_ but Bucky had the distinct feeling that Maggie could help him make _sense_ of everything.

He couldn't do that to her either. That wasn't her job, it wasn't her responsibility, and it went against everything he knew he had to do.

Bucky could feel his shoulders sag at the thought, at the idea of being _alone _yet again, but it felt selfish to do any differently. To knowingly and willingly put her in harm's way just because he was bored or lonely, or whatever.

He turned away from her hut and started the long walk back to his village. It was longer and far more fraught as he argued with himself and stumbled over the rocky terrain he traversed.

He couldn't get her anymore involved with him than she already was. And he knew he would have to find a way to divest himself from the situation. Remove himself before he hurt her before he hurt all of them.

_Wasn't this why you went under? Why you let The Princess root around in your brain? So you wouldn't have to be worried about all of this?_

That was the case. Bucky knew that was the case. That he shouldn't be worried about this anymore, they'd fixed this problem. He wasn't Hydra's tool.

_But that's untested. We won't know unless it happens again._ He couldn't help but fixate on that particular fact.

When he made it back to his hut, he couldn't bring himself to sit inside. The air still felt hot and sticky in his lungs. Instead, he sunk down on one of the logs outside and worked to rebuild the cooking fire.

The smoke stung his eyes, and he could feel as they watered. He blinked furiously but refused to wipe at his face as his tears started to stream.

_This isn't fair. It wasn't supposed to be like this._

He wanted to scream, but it had never been fair, hadn't been fair for a long, long time.

So Bucky sat outside, working the fire into cooking coals, and watched as the sun came up, steeling his resolve for what he knew he had to do.

Then, when it was time, he made and ate breakfast, went and dressed, and started his day.

_This is the right thing to do, she'll understand._ He repeated to himself, over and over, hoping that if he said it enough, it would be true. That if he repeated it enough, he might even believe it himself.

An almost calm had washed over him as he guided Sally and the cart along their usual path for the feed delivery. The routine and familiarity were comforting. He was in control of himself. He could do what was necessary to protect his friends. To protect her.

Turning the last corner toward Jelani's village, Bucky spotted her. Sitting as usual under the large trees, reading one of her books. A trashy paperback romance novel, no doubt. She looked perfectly at ease, content with herself and the world around her, unaware of the walking shit storm about to hit her.

_Maybe I can get in and out of the village without her noticing._

Now he was being a coward. Now he was afraid to face her.

_If you're going to put her through this, you need to at least have the decency to explain what's going on._

He walked past their usual meeting spot and toward the storage shed, where he dropped off the usual feed order.

He would do this, it would just be after he finished his work, so he could make a quick break for it after he told her.

"Hey, Bucky!"

_Or Not._

He had to stop himself from wincing as her voice broke the silence, echoing across the yard to greet him.

"Bucky! Wait! We can do that after lunch!"

He could hear her scrabble to her feet and rush to follow him. He stopped, turned, and watched as she approached, confusion wrinkling her brow.

"I can't stay." His voice came out low and gruff and harsher than he'd meant and he watched as her steps faltered, her eyes searching him.

"Oh. Okay." She said voice tinged in uncertainty as if she was testing her weight on a frozen pond. "Well, do you wanna do another movie on our list sometime this week?"

"I don't think that's a good idea."

She paused, again allowing time to survey him with a careful and thoughtful expression. "What's going on, Bucky?"

"Nothing. It just...It just isn't a good idea for us to spend time together."

"What happened?" She pressed on.

"Nothing _happened." _He practically choked on the last word as he felt his throat tighten around the syllables.

Maggie nodded quickly, chewing on the corner of her mouth.

She didn't buy it for a moment, and she was going to call him on it, push him, force him to confess.

"If I've done something, you know you can tell me, right?" Her voice was small as she said it. "If-I mean-I know-"

"It wasn't you." He cut her off. "It's...I'm..." He stammered his resolve wavering. "I'm dangerous." Bucky managed shortly. "I thought I was responsible for your death once. I won't put you in harm's way again."

Maggie nodded slowly. "I understand." She stopped, her expression smoothing a moment, and she cleared her throat. "Before I go any further. I have to say, this is therapist Maggie speaking, not your friend Maggie."

"Okay."

"Are you having thoughts of harming yourself or others?"

That, of course, had been her first thought. _Yourself or others. _Not, 'do you want to hurt me?' She was trying to decide how to react, trying to figure out how best to respond for his sake, she wasn't thinking about herself

"No. No." He shook his head. Bucky took a deep breath. What was he supposed to say? No. He wasn't thinking of harming himself or others. He was grappling with the reality that he might be forced to harm himself or others. What would she say to that? There was only one way to find out. "I had a dream." Bucky began slowly. "I had a dream that Hydra triggered me and that they made me kill you."

It sounded stupid, even as he said it, and Bucky waited for her to laugh at him.

"Oh." She said. It was a short little sound, with tremendous heft.

She was going to tell him that it was just a dream or that he was being ridiculous. She wouldn't be wrong, he was being ridiculous, it was only a dream, and yet he wasn't sure what he would if she told him so. He wasn't sure what he _wanted_ her to say, only that he wanted her to say something.

"I can understand why that would be upsetting and why you're shaken." Maggie continued after a moment. "You've been through a lot, you're still processing, it makes sense since we've been around one another with some frequency that your mind would latch on to me while working through what you're dealing with."

Bucky stared. _That's it? That's all she's going to say? _It took absolutely everything he had for him to not unhinge his jaw and drop it on the ground. "You're taking all of this pretty well." He examined her critically.

"You are talking to the dame who lied to the cops and performed light surgery on the Winter Soldier. My threshold for fucked up is a little bit out of whack." She laughed weakly.

Bucky knew it wasn't a joke. What was worse was that Maggie was being honest. And unfortunately, he agreed. Her "threshold for fucked up" was well, frankly that, fucked up. That was the problem, and it seemed like she didn't realize that it was a problem. Furthermore, Bucky knew he couldn't let her use that as an excuse or a reason to allow him to endanger her. He wouldn't.

"So what? You want to continue on like I'm not a health hazard?" He bit out, each syllable hard and sharp and brittle.

She didn't flinch, didn't pull away or look hurt. Instead, she just shook her head before glancing up to meet his gaze. "That's not up to me. That's something you're going to have to work out." She paused. "Have you thought about talking to a therapist?" He froze, uncertain of where this was going or what he could do to stop her on the course she was headed. Unaware of this, Maggie charged on, "someone who isn't me who can help you talk through some of these things. I mean, I can do it. If you want me to, it would just mean I can't be your friend. A professional thing, being able to keep myself out of it to help you work through some of this stuff."

"I understand." He said, almost automatically, before the meaning, the actual meaning of her words sunk in. "Wait. What? You'd be willing to give up our friendship to be my therapist?"

"If you wanted. Frankly, I'm not sure I'm qualified, but if you asked me to, I would."

Bucky didn't know what to say. What could he say to that?

"You don't have to decide right now. But you shouldn't force yourself muddle through this all alone."

He nodded.

"Now, I'll help you offload the feed so you can be on your way." She said lightly, but there wasn't a smile on her face or a bright glint in her eyes. A weight had settled on her shoulders and expression, and she moved as if every motion was laborious.

Yet she said nothing, and Bucky was content to work in silence. It was better than trying to find something to say. When they finished, they paused, looking one another over, waiting for the other person to say something, anything.

Maggie broke first. "Well, I'm around if you need anything." She paused, cringing as she shook her head. "I _really_ don't like the idea of you being alone."

_It's better this way, safer this way. _This was true, of course, but he could already feel the dread pooling in his stomach at the thought of being trapped inside his own head.

_That_ _'s not her problem. It's yours, and you'll deal with it._

"I appreciate your concern, but I'll be fine."

She nodded. "All right, I'll see you around then."

"I'll see you around then," he echoed.

Bucky watched as she walked away, back to where she'd been eating lunch. No tears, no gnashing of teeth, just a simple set of very pointed questions, and an almost numb acceptance.

_You're doing the right thing. _He repeated to himself over and over.

So why didn't it feel that way?

Bucky didn't know, and so instead he focused on putting one foot in front of the other, and taking one deep breath in and exhaling one breath out, all the way to the next village, and the next village until he could go back to his hut and collapse into bed.

* * *

Maggie watched as he went, shock, denial, and then a sort of numbness fell over her.

He'd had a dream that Hydra had forced him to kill her.

She could understand why he wanted to push her away.

Maggie could still remember the dreams she'd had with the Winter Soldier present, the ones where Hydra had tortured her, and he'd stood by and watched. She'd almost told him. She'd wanted to tell him, but she'd hesitated. What good would it have done? To what end and effect? She didn't know, and so she hadn't said anything.

Maybe he was right. Perhaps he was dangerous, and distance was the best, but that didn't feel right, not after everything she'd seen.

He was capable of great violence, but also tremendous kindness and gentleness. Never once in his presence, since she'd come to Wakanda, not even when she'd been patching him up after the whole instance with the goat had she felt like she was in danger.

Maggie sat on the blanket, feeling somehow like she'd done something wrong. Like she should chase him down and say something, tell him he was being a self-loathing moron. That he shouldn't isolate himself. But that wasn't her place.

_You basically just got "it's not you it's me-ed."_

So she had, and it was his right. She'd said so herself. Friendship was a moment by moment exercise in consent. He had a right to say he didn't want to see her again, and she had a right to go sit down and cry somewhere.

"Heyi, Cowgirl! Where is White Wolf?" Jelani inquired as he walked by.

"He's come and gone, had something to take care of, and couldn't stay for lunch." She explained, perhaps a little too quickly.

Jelani nodded. "Take the rest of the day. Stretch your legs, take a ride to the western ridge."

Was it that obvious? That she was upset? She didn't know, but opened her mouth to protest.

"That wasn't a suggestion, Cowgirl. Go."

"Okay, okay." She said, putting her hands up in surrender.

"Good."

Maggie rose, collecting her things. She'd go to her hut and grab some stuff. Water, food, treats for Skywalker, and her journal and a few pens. She'd have to take her own advice and do a bit of journaling. She didn't need all of this in her head, not when she needed her head firmly planted on her shoulders, and her brain solidly between her ears.

_I can't believe you offered to be his therapist._

It was a bad idea, she knew it was a bad idea, but now it was a bad idea that had been planted in the man's brain.

_What if he says yes? What if he prefers you as his therapist than as his friend?_

Maggie wasn't sure if she could handle that. Her only point of consistent social interaction transforming into another business transaction. Perhaps that was all she was to him, maybe that was all she'd ever been to him.

_Well, you'll soon find out soon enough._

Yet she couldn't get that look of terror in his eyes. That raw fear, and that near animalistic expression as if her proximity was a threat to him. He might not think twice about completely isolating himself and rejecting both her friendship and her offer to try to help him process some of his shit.

Maggie shook her head, adjusting the saddle straps and double-checking the saddlebag. There literally wasn't anything she could do. She couldn't help Barnes if he didn't want her to. So there was nothing to be gained by sitting around obsessing over the what ifs of the thing.

A good ride would help clear her head. It would certainly give her a good work out, and beyond that, it was something to do that didn't involve prying eyes and even more prying questions.

Mounting Skywalker, she urged him into a trot and pointed him toward the western ridge and started off to try to make some sense of the muddled world currently transpiring around her.

* * *

While he'd tried to bend all of his focus around his breathing and walking, by the time Bucky made it back to the village, he felt on the verge of a panic attack.

He'd done everything right, hadn't he? He'd told her what he was doing and why. He hadn't done anything wrong, hadn't just all of a sudden served all communications and contact between them.

She hadn't been upset or hadn't seemed to be. She'd been, if anything, concerned for him. That made everything worse.

_She offered to forego friendship so she could help you, to help you sort through all this... all this shit._

What did that mean?

Well, it meant what it meant, and what it meant was that he had a decision to make.

_No!_

Bucky shook his head. No. That wasn't it at all. He'd made his decision, that decision was to get her out of his life. His decision was to protect her, by removing himself so that he didn't hurt her when inevitably this went sideways.

Yet it had been like she'd completely ignored that part like she'd jumped from 'I need you out of my life for your protection' to 'Therapist or Friend?'

_Damn it, Maggie._

How did she always manage that? How could she possibly be so ignorant that she was still willing to put herself in danger when she _knew, _she KNEW what he was capable of.

It was almost too much for him to bear.

_My threshold for fucked up is a little out of whack._

_No shit. _Bucky would've laughed if not for the very truth of the thing. And he froze at the sound of approaching footsteps, near the barn where Bucky was returning Sally and the cart.

"You're back early., Omondi commented brightly as he entered Bucky's periphery.

He nodded. The old man was fishing, if word hadn't already spread from Jelani's village, it soon would.

"Well, since you're back, come play a game with me and some of the others. You'll enjoy it."

"No, thank you. Perhaps another time." He answered as politely as he could manage.

"Indeed," Omondi said flatly, giving him a once over he nodded, before returning wordlessly the way he'd come.

_What was that all about?_

If Jelani had said something, if Maggie had said something to Jelani who'd then relayed it on to Omondi, Bucky would've expected more of a push, more persistence. Instead, the old man had simply left him alone. Perhaps he was simply curious, and the question had been harmless. At the very least it felt harmless.

Perhaps she hadn't said anything, maybe no one other than the two of them knew what had transpired. Maybe, just maybe, he'd actually be left alone.

After he finished his chores, Bucky returned wordlessly to his hut. Flipping open his journal, he started writing as a stream of words flowed from his pen. As all of the foggy thoughts, and feelings, and _words_ sprang forth, practically fully formed and landed on the page. He tried to ignore how his stomach twinged, or how his whole body felt like it was shaking, making his handwriting jittery and erratic.

Bucky knew he wasn't calm, cool, or collected, and he couldn't fathom how Maggie had managed to maintain that when they'd been talking. He was scared. He was scared of what he could do, of what he was capable of. But perhaps what was most frightening was that she knew, knew who he was, what he'd done, and didn't seem to care, didn't seem to grasp that he was a danger to her.

Steve, Wilson, Natasha, T'Challa, and The Dora, they were all enhanced or highly trained and capable of defending themselves. He wasn't a threat to them. They could take him down if necessary.

Maggie...Ramirez...she was vulnerable.

He squeezed his aching eyes shut. He could still see her, see her staring up at him, wide but unafraid when he'd...as he'd...he couldn't even think it.

_It had only been a dream._

But could he risk it?

And what about all of the others for whom that hadn't been a dream? All the others that had died at the hand of the Winter Soldier. Sure, that had all been coerced action, he hadn't had a choice, he hadn't _wanted_ to do any of it. Yet, those people were still dead, regardless of his intention, regardless of anything he might have meant or not meant. It really didn't matter if he'd _meant_ to do any of it.

Bucky exhaled a strangled sigh. Setting down the pen a moment, he rubbed at his stinging eyes. He wanted to talk to Natasha. She would have something novel and insightful to say. She knew what he was, really knew. She'd been there, in Hydra, when he'd been the Winter Soldier. She'd been able to see him for what he was and give him the answers he needed to hear.

But he couldn't get ahold of her. Trying to get in touch with Steve would be difficult enough, but it would raise serious alarms if he reached out to Natasha.

Besides, he didn't want anyone to worry about him, not when they were out in the field. Not when they had so much to concern themselves with without him adding his _shit_ to the pile. No. He'd have to deal with this on his own.

_Exactly like Maggie was worried, you would._

Bucky shook his head, picking up his pen back up. That didn't matter. None of that mattered. There was no decision to be made, no odds to be weighed, no choices. She didn't deserve this, didn't deserve being stranded here in Wakanda with him, didn't deserve having her life destroyed because of him. Didn't deserve to die because she'd extended the hand of friendship, and like a hopeful, stupid idiot, he'd accepted it without a second thought of his true nature.

Twilight eventually set in around him, signaling the end of yet another day, and Bucky knew he was on his own. And although he might not like it, this was what was best for everyone.

* * *

Maggie rode and rode, and then when she'd reached the western ridge, sat and journaled for a good hour. It had been a long, long time since she'd written anything for herself, and the words came in long, slow, frustrated, bursts, but as she wrote, she felt less like crying and started feeling more resolved.

Ultimately, she couldn't do shit. What was worse, perhaps, was that she knew she couldn't do shit. It was no one's fault. This was something that Bucky was going to have to sort through. Maggie only wished that he wasn't doing it alone.

Not that she wasn't the poster child for just absolutely clamming up and refusing to address her own mental health. In fact, Barnes had been an excellent distraction from her own problems for a while now.

Maggie sighed, looking up at the long horizon stretched out before her. It was a vast sea of green as far as the eye could see. The grass was so green it almost shone blue under the sunlight, and looking over the fast empty openness, Maggie couldn't help but feel small. Small and alone and insignificant. She felt like a feather being tossed around in a hurricane. Fragile and helpless, and at the mercy of forces beyond her control.

She took a deep breath, pressing the heels of her hands against her eyes, trying to relieve some of the pressure that had started to build behind them.

"Put on your own oxygen mask before helping others." She murmured to the empty grassland before her, repeating it over and over like a mantra.

That was the first rule of being a therapist, being a first responder, activist, whatever. You're no good to anyone if you're out of sorts yourself. It was advice that she'd given a hundred times over to her volunteers, and had received a thousand times over from Sam.

_What would that even look like in this situation? How am I supposed to put on my own oxygen mask before helping others?_

Well, she'd put the ball in Barnes's court. She hadn't washed her hands of him, but she also hadn't immediately jumped into therapist mode, determined to fix his problems, or at the very least determined to make him process his trauma and start to help him address that trauma. She'd told him to decide what he wanted and what he wanted to do but had left it open to him whether or not to pursue any of those options.

_But you know he's just going isolate himself, right?_

Of course, she knew that. Just by the way he'd reacted after his nightmare. He was going to push people away. It was a typical reaction to trauma. Self-isolation. Many thought it was easier to go it alone than drag other people along for the ride.

Maggie could certainly understand that. She didn't condone it but knew it would've been absolutely hypocritical if she hadn't admitted, at least to her self, that she understood where he was coming from.

_Okay. So. I should tell someone about this. I should seek out advice. Or at very least get someone who ISN'T me to talk to Barnes._

But who? The Wakandans? She wasn't entirely sure of the relationship there. Willing to remove Hydra programming? Yes. Willing to provide counseling? Currently unknown. Besides, she wasn't the one to be asking these questions for Barnes. This was his deal, and he'd have to find his way through it, and right now, it looked like he didn't want her involved in that, for a variety of reasons.

Should she try to get ahold of Steve? What would she even say to Rogers? _Hey! Your friend had an apparently rather graphic dream where he brutally murdered me, and now he won't talk to me, will you check in on him?_ Because _THAT_ would go over real well. Not only would it freak out Steve, and possibly endanger the Secret Avengers (or whatever the hell they were calling themselves), it would totally betray Bucky's trust.

_Bucky's trust? _

At this point, that really shouldn't matter, should it? He was in crisis, she was a therapist, the next course of action was to reach out to the appropriate points of contact in his support network.

_With or without his consent? He_ _'s not suicidal, Mags. He had a bad dream, and it freaked him out. He needed a friend, whether he knows it or not, he doesn't need to be institutionalized._

"The fuck am I supposed to do then?"

That really was the question then, wasn't it? The sun had started to set, as Maggie made her way back to the village, puzzling through her predicament the entire way.

Maggie had just nearly reached a solution by the time she'd reached the halfway mark and had the workings of a basic plan by the time that she'd arrived back to the village. It wasn't much of a plan, but it was better than just sitting around with her thumb up her ass, hoping things worked out for the best.

Her mind was racing. There was a risk involved. Risk that her message wouldn't be well received. That this whole thing could backfire and that everyone involved would either A) hate her, or B) laugh her off as being a reactionary. Regardless, she couldn't let this just lie. Now, she'd just have to wait for the right moment to ask a favor.

"Heyi, Cowgirl!" Jelani's voice made her jump, and she looked up to see the man approaching as she tied off Skywalker and started to remove the horse's tack so she could do a thorough brush down. "Good ride?"

"Yeah." She nodded.

"Good."

"Jelani?" Maggie began.

The older man stopped and turned to face her, curiosity dancing on his expression. "Yes?"

"Is there..." She faltered, uncertain if she should continue. _If you don't do it now, you might never get another chance until it's too late._ "Is there any way I could get a message to my friend, Samuel Wilson? Like I did in December?"

The older man frowned, nodding thoughtfully before he spoke. "I don't know if our King has kept in constant contact with the Captain, and your friend Samuel, but I will see what can be done. Record your message on one of your Kimoyo beads, and I will get it to the appropriate people."

"Thank you, I appreciate it tremendously." Maggie smiled weakly.

"Is all well with you and theWhite Wolf?" Jelani inquired, looking her up and down.

"Yes. We're all well." She lied. "A little homesick and I miss my friend, I wanted to send him a message."

Her voice felt pinched and manic, but it was the best she could come up with on the spot.

"Uh, huh." He nodded voice skeptical as he scratched his chin, combing his fingers through his short beard. "I will get the message to my King."

"Thank you."

"I will leave you to it, you will take dinner with me and my family, will you not?"

"I would be honored."

"Good. Teela had some things for you. I think she wanted to give you a loom."

"A loom?"

"You mentioned wanting to know how Wakandan fabric was manufactured."

"Ah." Maggie chuckled, nodding. "Yes. I will join you and your family for dinner. I look forward to Tee's instruction."

"You have no idea what you've gotten yourself into, Cowgirl."

"No, I suppose I haven't. What time do you want me over?"

"I'll send Sisay over when dinner is ready."

"That sounds good. I'll see you all then."

"Yes, we will, Cowgirl." He waved, continuing about his business and leaving Maggie to hers.

Maggie fell back into her usual rhythm as she worked, and by the time she was done, she had a plan. She was going to get a message to Sam. Make it clear that everyone was fine, but that Bucky needed an ear, from someone who _wasn't _her. She wouldn't mention the dream. That would be difficult to convey over message. Sam would know there was something she wasn't saying and would be able to translate for Steve. With any luck, Sam would be able to return a message, but Maggie knew well enough not to hold her breath.

_This is your plan? Really? Sam doesn_ _'t deserve ANY of this shit. _

Maggie knew that she was asking a lot yet again from Sam. Sam was on the run after fighting half of the avengers and then being locked away on a floating super-max prison because of Bucky because they were going to execute an innocent man. He was there because of Steve. He loved Steve, and he believed in Steve and all that Steve and, for that matter, all that Captain America stood for. She just hoped, when it came down to it, that Sam was looking out for himself.

_And now you're asking him to pass a message along to Steve for you because Steve's Cyborg formerly brainwashed assassin boyfriend is having a hard time._

No. Ultimately, she was doing this because she didn't know what else to do. She wasn't asking Sam to fix the problem, by any stretch of the imagination, she just wanted a bit of help getting word to Steve without raising alarms. Hopefully, Sam would understand. Hopefully, she'd get a chance to talk with him. Hopefully, at some point in the future, they would all look back and be able to laugh about it or some such shit. Well...probably not laugh, but be able to move past all of this.

Right now, everything felt grim, and Maggie was scared. She was scared for her friend, scared what her action or inaction might mean, and scared that once again, she might be facing a whole bunch of shit virtually on her own.

But there was nothing she could do about that right now. She had work to be getting on with. She would let Barnes try to figure out some of this shit on his own, but that didn't mean that she wasn't going to reach out for help. Whatever happened next, she knew she couldn't face it alone, nor should Barnes _have _to face it alone.

_And you said you didn't want to be therapist, Maggie._

Well, she hadn't, and until such time Barnes said that he _wanted_ her as his therapist, she would continue to act as his friend and only his friend. Right now, that friend was worried and was going to pass that along the line to make sure that all of his _other_ friends were a little worried too. It was the very least she could do.

* * *

I know that was heavy, but I promise we're not going to have another one like this for a while! I hope you enjoyed the update, and I can't wait to share with you what I have cooking for the next few chapters!

Thank you to everyone who has commented. You really do make this hobby all that more fulfilling. And I appreciate the patience with my update schedule being wonky. I hope everyone is having a good October and excellent holidays all around!

As always, thanks for following along. Happy Reading!


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